


Sansa, Interrupted

by emmiemac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anorexia, Bulimia, Consensual Sex, Cousin Incest, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Mental Health Issues, Non-Consensual Touching, Oral Sex, Prescription Drug Overdose, Promiscuity, Sexual Grooming, Underage sexual activity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-01 00:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11474397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmiemac/pseuds/emmiemac
Summary: A near-deadly mix of pills and liquor send Sansa to the emergency ward in the Vale where she is transferred to the Quiet Isle for treatment. Now she must face her troubled young life if she hopes to be sent back to the world again. Sansa will need to be honest, strong and brave. “I am a Stark. I can be brave.”





	1. Chapter 1

 

Sansa narrows her eyes slightly as she examines the diploma on the wall. She wonders if she will have her name on a diploma one day. Like most girls of her high-born background, she was sent to a good college but she is not there now. She is here in this…place: this place where she does not belong. Her life has been abruptly interrupted. But it was an accident: she never meant to hurt herself, she would never do that. Why did they not believe her?

 _The Quiet Isle Psychiatric Institute for Mental Wellness._ Sansa is mortified. How could she be _here_? And what if anyone should find out?

The old building in which she has been committed had once been a part of the monastery, its numbers greatly diminished in modern times and so they needed only one smaller residence on the far side of the island where they lived and worked. There remained something of the calm atmosphere of the former occupants in the simple rustic décor with its earthy colours and the exposed wood beams and pale stone walls and floors. But Sansa has been placed on a ward with locks on the heavy wood doors and iron bars on the windows, just like a prison. Her bed has no sheets and there are no drapes or blinds at the window. She is not allowed to wear her own clothes, they have given her a flimsy hospital gown with snaps up the back and she is barefoot; and she is watched almost constantly. A burly female attendant even accompanies her to the toilet. She has to get out of here, she thinks, or she _will_ go crazy.

She takes another slow turn around the office where she has been brought to wait, and then stops suddenly as the door is unlocked behind her.

“Good morning, Miss Stark. Please forgive me for keeping you waiting: the ferry crossing was very rough this morning.”

The doctor is tall, taller than Sansa and even more slender; and her hair is a vivid red compared Sansa’s deep auburn. She wears a red silk blouse and a wine-coloured skirt and matching heels. It is her voice that is most striking, mesmerizing almost: low and seductively soothing, with a silky Eastern accent. The woman turns and nods to the attendant outside and moves to set down her bag and a plastic cup on her desk: no porcelain or glass of course, not even for the doctors, because they can shatter and cut and they needs protect the mental patients.

 _Like me_ , Sansa realizes anew with a horrible, sinking feeling.

Though she feels trapped, Sansa forces herself to stay calm and reply politely. She is a good girl, and was raised to be courteous.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she tells the woman as she self-consciously smooths down the faded hospital gown, now even shabbier looking next to the doctor’s fashionable outfit. _It’s not like a have a choice to be here,_ she thinks. Once the thought occurs to her, she cannot help rushing forward several steps with her hands clasped together earnestly. “Please, doctor, there has been a mistake: I- I don’t belong here, truly…I want to go home.”

Her doctor glances up at her, and Sansa sees her eyes are a reddish-brown. They seem to glow almost red in the morning sunlight slanting into the office through high windows.

“I want you to go home as well, Miss Stark, that is why we are here this morning: to determine if you are well enough to go home and resume your life. Please,” she prompts her gently, “won’t you be seated? You will be more comfortable.”

Sansa twists her hands together: a gesture not lost on her doctor, she notices; and so she sits as calmly and gracefully as she can, this time folding her hands in her lap like a lady.

Satisfied, the doctor settles across the desk from her and opens her slim file and looks it over thoughtfully without speaking. Soon Sansa feels restless.

“Your diploma is from the Open University of Essos,” she remarks tightly.

The woman glances up and smiles. “It is. I am from Asshai, and the tongue there is my first language. That is what gives me my accent in the Common Tongue. It is the first thing the people of Westeros notice. Foreigners are not as common here as they are in the Free Cities. Have you been to Essos, Miss Stark?”

Sansa shakes her head, and feels unsophisticated next to this elegant woman. _Melisandre_ , her name had been printed on the diploma. There was no family name, which was not uncommon in parts of the East. “No-“ she begins.

“You are from the North,” she nods to the file before her.

Sansa nods again, like an obedient child. “Yes,” she tells her, “from Winterfell.”

“You are a Stark, Sansa…May I call you Sansa? …that is more than just being _from_ Winterfell. Some say that your family _is_ the North. Tell me: did you choose to attend college in King’s Landing or was that your family’s decision?”

Sansa drops her eyes and wills herself not to cry. “It was what I had wanted,” she whispers hoarsely.

“I see: what you _had_ wanted,” the doctor emphasizes Sansa’s use of the past tense. “Did that change? You were in the Vale when you were brought to the emergency room.”

“Yes,” Sansa leans forward, “but the- the overdose was an accident. I didn’t know those pills would be dangerous: my aunt took so many of them, all the time-“

“Not knowing their effect should have been enough reason for you not to take them, Sansa,” the doctor upbraided her, not ungently. “Your college application shows that you are above average in intelligence. Certainly you are aware that you should never take another person’s prescription medication?”

Sansa squirms in her seat now. “Well, I really wasn’t thinking…I had champagne that same evening,” she begins.

“You consumed a great deal on champagne according to the hospital record: your blood alcohol level was quite high,” she observes, again nodding to her file.

Sansa bristles defensively. “I am quite certain that it would not be the first time a young woman got carried away when drinking champagne…”

“I am more concerned that this is not the first time that _you_ have gotten carried away drinking champagne, Sansa. Tell me, please, do you frequently drink to excess?”

“I like champagne,” she replied briskly, “but it sometimes catches up with me.” She laughs briefly and uncomfortably. “I always thought I had a weak head for alcohol. I- I could never stomach beer or…or even hard liquor; but champagne always seemed so harmless before.”

“No alcohol is harmless in excess; and it should never be mixed with prescription drugs of any kind…much less the combination that you took, Sansa: painkillers, tranquilizers and anti-depressants.” She tilts her head and examines Sansa carefully. “There was a word written in lipstick on the mirror in your bedchamber.”

Sansa drops her eyes evasively. “Was there? I- I don’t remember…I don’t remember that. Perhaps I did not even see it. It is all rather hazy now.”

The woman Melisandre scratches some notes on a pad of paper.

“The word was _slut,_ ” Sansa’s doctor remarks offhandedly now. “Are you saying that you did not write it?”

“No, of course not,” Sansa replies somewhat sharply. “That is not a word that a lady uses,” she amends when this Melisandre from Asshai glances up at her.

“It is important to you to act like a lady,” she remarks but Sansa knows she is probing. Still, she cannot help but defend herself.

“Of course,” she replies again, “it is how I was raised. I…I think it may have been Myranda,” she offers.

“Myranda? That would be Myranda Royce,” she observes as she looks over a list of names.

“Yes,” Sansa rushed to tell her. “We were friends until…until there was talk of an engagement between myself and a young man named Harrold Hardyng: he is quite an eligible bachelor in the Vale…all of Westeros, really. Myranda had hoped to marry him, and so she became rather jealous of me. And Myranda has always used, well, rather crude language.” She hopes that she does not sound mean; in truth Sansa had always liked Myranda and was hurt when she became jealous. She had always been so much fun, an open in a way Sansa never felt she could be. The doctor is watching her carefully and takes her time before speaking again.

“Hm…a young woman who is engaged is not a slut. An engagement is a promise to wed; a slut is a promiscuous woman, often one who uses sex to get what she wants. At least that is what other women often believe.” She smirks wryly now. “But to men it is a term generally used of women who sleep with men other than themselves,” she confides confidentially.

Sansa cannot help but smile at that; that is, until the woman asks her a pointed question.

“Where you having sex with this young man?”

At first Sansa only stares at the effrontery of her question; but then she remembers that she needs do what this woman says to be free and so she nods reluctantly.

The doctor notes her stiff reserve. “Was it consensual sex, Sansa?” she asks quietly.

Stunned, Sansa’s eyes fill with sudden tears. “I…I suppose…I don’t know…what difference does it make?”

The elegant and composed woman seated across from her raises her thin eyebrows is astonishment, and Sansa feels perversely pleased to have elicited such a reaction from her.

“It should matter a great to _you_ that sex is consensual, Sansa. You are a free individual with rights to your person, to what you want to do with your body. If you choose to have sex, that is your right; but if you don’t choose…or you don’t believe that you can or even have the right, well, that is harmful to you. It is harmful to your autonomy, to your self-respect…to your very soul, Sansa. And a girl who is forced or manipulated or coerced is not a slut; she is a victim of assault of the most personal and intimate kind.”

Sansa simply stares at her as her eyes fill again. Her mind is a jumble, and she wants to turn away and run: run so hard and fast that her muscles scream and her lungs burn and her heart is near bursting and she can’t feel anything but the heady rush in her head and the pain in her body that block out everything else in the world but her next footfall and her next breath. When she closes her eyes she wants to see the finish line of a race rushing headlong at her. But instead she sees faces: the faces of men, the faces of men that she wants to forget; and finally the face that she can never forget.

_No, Father: don’t let them!  Lady’s good: she’s good!_

She had thought then that she could never forgive him; now she can never forgive herself.

“Sansa? What are you thinking right now?”

She is facing the Red Woman again, in her office, in this place: this terrible place that she cannot escape.

“I’m not,” she says with a sniffle. _I don’t want to think,_ she almost adds stubbornly.

“I see,” the Red Woman replies easily, as though she understands anyway. “I would like to ask some questions about the information in your file…is that alright?”

Sansa sets her jaw firmly but nods her head. Surely this woman knows she has no choice but to be here: who is she to lecture her about having a choice or autonomy?

“You have finished your sophomore year at King’s Landing University,” she notes, “and you are majoring in art history?”

“Yes.”

“You were interning for your aunt’s husband, it says.”

“Petyr…Mister Baelish is an art dealer and importer. I worked in his office and sometimes at the warehouse when shipments came in. I was staying with them…” she trails off.

The Red Woman nods absently, seemingly indifferent to the circumstances of the night Sansa was brought to the hospital before being transferred to the Quiet Isle.

“You are also an athlete?” she says with a touch of surprise.

“Yes,” Sansa tells her with some emphasis. “I run, and I compete as a sprinter.”

“You _did_ compete…isn’t that right?”

Sansa stiffens defensively. “My coach thought it best that I sit out the rest of the season,” she replies curtly. “I still train with the track team.”

“The doctors in the emergency reported some problems with your overall health: is that why you could not compete anymore? You were found to be dehydrated, anemic, and when they prepped you for gastric suction they found some damage to your esophagus consistent with repeated vomiting,” she notes with clinical precision.

“I…The heat in Kings Landing…that is, I was not accustomed to the high humidity, and the spicy food of the South. I was sick a lot,” Sansa explains calmly though she clutches her hands together in her lap. The Red Woman notices again.

“You have teeth marks on your index and middle fingers above the knuckle, Sansa: that is a telltale sign of forced purging,” she insists gently. “Please, Sansa, I want to help you. What you are doing can kill you: either in the short term by a ruptured esophagus or in the long term with esophageal cancer: both very painful deaths. You are also weakening your heart and straining your other organs, as well as risking infertility. All of these mean that you would suffer a great deal. I don’t want you to suffer, Sansa.”

Sansa very nearly recoils to know that anyone should have discovered her secret. She can see her wan and reddened face in her bathroom mirror, with her eyes and nose running, and smell and taste the vomit in her nose and mouth and throat. She is ugly at these moments, and that people should know of her ugliness shocks and shames her. She gulps a deep breath.

“I don’t want to suffer _either_ ,” she blurts angrily.

The Red Woman gazes at her levelly. “Is that why you took the pills, Sansa? To stop suffering?”

“No. No, please,” Sansa all but begs now, “I- I just want to go _home_.”

Her doctor sighs. “You cannot go back out in the world yet. I fear for you, and the harm you may do to yourself, as well as the harm that others may do to you.” She looks at Sansa sadly. “When you are ready, Sansa.”

“When…when will that be?”

The Red Woman stares at her a long moment.

“I don’t know, Sansa.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

A fog has rolled in on the Quiet Isle, and the dull mist that cloaks the view of the water and the distant mainland seems only to intensify the feeling of the smothering grey shroud that envelops Sansa’s daily existence. She stares with weak loathing at the breakfast tray they have left her, now gone cold: buttered toast and greasy bacon and boiled eggs, pulpy juice in a white plastic cup, a plastic fork and a flimsy paper napkin on a tin tray that rattled and clanked in the squeaky cart the attendant rolled down the hallway of the wing.

She wants hot black coffee and dry granola with raisins: only a half-cup measure; and she wants to lace up her runners tightly and practice sprints outdoors. Since she was banned from the weight room for fainting, she had pumped cinder blocks that she had stolen from the construction behind the Great Sept of Baelor with Loras’ help. Loras was a star sprinter from the Reach: a junior, and he was thinking of training for triathlons. He encouraged Sansa’s hard training, and showed her how to lift and how to do pushups and press-ups with cinder blocks and even gave her a pair of his fingerless leather gloves to protect her hands. He was gaunt and handsome and funny and gay. He told her his training schedule was what kept his parents from asking him about girlfriends. He asked her if she would be his.

“You know, just around campus and when they visit. You can see other guys, Sansa; I know _I_ will,” he had laughed.

Sansa had agreed: she adored Loras and would have happily done anything for him. She sometimes wished fleetingly that he was not gay; but then he would not be Loras. She felt safe with him anyway: he never wanted her that way, so she could almost be herself. Little had she realized the troubles their friendly arrangement would bring. Sansa sighs, and wonders when her life had become so very complicated.

Sansa tries to improvise now. She runs in place, lifting her knees high. She lunges the length of the small room ten times. She lies on the floor, pressing the cold metal chair above her chest like a barbell. She does sit-ups and push-ups until her breathing is ragged. When the attendant comes for her breakfast tray and sees that it is untouched, he frowns.

“Doc won’t see you if you don’t eat, miss,” he tells her flatly.

“What?’ Sansa is crestfallen, but also angry. “No one told me that.”

“They shouldn’t need to tell you to _eat_ , miss. I have my orders: you stay in today until you eat. If you do, doc’ll see you tomorrow.” He leaves her tray on the shelf and leaves her sitting on the floor, uncertain whether to scream or cry.

She is doing squats when there is a knock at her chamber door where she sees the face of an older man through the little window latticed with wire so that it could not shatter. She stands there a moment, uncertain how to respond. Finally she steps closer and speaks to him through the window:

“I can’t open the door: it’s locked from the outside.”

“I know, Miss Stark, but I would like your permission to have it opened. I am the Elder Brother at the monastery here. May I speak with you?”

Sansa is apprehensive: where they going to try to brainwash her with religion? Sansa knows the New Gods, and the Seven-Pointed Star. Mayhaps if she plays along, they would let her go home.

“Very well,” she replies.

“Thank you,” the man say sand then steps back so that a burly guard can unlock her chamber door. When the door opens, the man stands in the doorway but does not enter. He holds a pile of folded clothing.

“I thought you might like to walk around the grounds with me, Miss Stark. I’ve brought you some clothing and I hope it fits well enough. It must be returned when I bring you back to your chamber, of course, but…” he holds out the pile to her.

Sansa is tempted to snatch it away from him, but she wants him to like her and so she does not forget her courtesies.

“I thank you…I-”

“I’ll wait in the hallway,” he tells her kindly and turns his back as she shuts the door.

Loose cotton underpants, loose, coarsely-woven linen pants and shirt, a worn wool sweater and socks, wooden clogs: all well-washed and worn and all men’s clothing. Clothes that Sansa Stark would normally not have been caught dead in but she is so relieved to be out of the synthetic hospital gown that fastens with snaps like baby clothing that she cannot pull the pieces on fast enough. She finally dons the oversized sweater and pulls her long hair through the neck to flop around her shoulders. She opens the door timidly.

“I’m ready now.”

The monk smiles and offers his arm. “Please let me escort you, Miss Stark. The fog makes these old floors slippery; and it is hard to see where you are going outside unless you know the way.”

“I didn’t think I was allowed outside,” Sansa tells him candidly. “I was told I could not leave my chambers-”

“Because you are not eating,” the man finishes. “Miss Stark, do you follow the old gods of the North?”

“Y-yes, _and_ the Seven. My mother was from Riverrrun, and was baptized in the light of the Seven, and so was I.”

“The old gods and the new,” he repeats a phrase she has heard all her life. “It matters little to me what gods a person follows, as long as they have some faith and respect for life and the world we live in. Allow me,” he says as he opens a door, “and mind your step. It is a steep set of stairs down to the sand.”

“Are we going down to the beach?” Sansa asks hopefully.

He chuckles somewhat. “Close to it, but the tide is coming in so we will stay on the path through the grounds. I’m afraid you will not even be able to see beyond the water’s edge through this fog.” When Sansa gives no answer, he continues: “It can seem quite isolated here, which is good for us penitents because we want to be away from the world. It must seem oppressive if it was not a choice you made willingly; but my dear, sometimes we need to free ourselves from all the noise and pressure and trappings of everyday life to remember what is truly important.”

There is a crunching sound beneath their feet now and Sansa looks down to see they are walking a gravel path. Thought it seems to be receding somewhat, the fog is still thick enough that she cannot see very far but the old brother seems to know exactly where he is heading and so she rests her hand in the crook of his arm that she had been holding tightly and lets herself be guided.

“I was a soldier once,” he tells her suddenly. “Does that surprise you?”

“Did the Seven once not have a faith militant?” Sansa asks and the man laughs hugely.

“I promise that I am not so old as that, Miss Stark; but you are right: some soldiers have become religious and some septons have become fighting men for their faith. They say the children of the forest in the North helped the Andals defeat the dreaded White Walkers.”

Sansa smiles wistfully and falters to hear the legends of her youth recounted.

“My…my father used to tell us those stories,” she ventures quietly.

The monk is subdued now. “I know of your father, Miss Stark; you cannot have been very old when he passed away,” he says sympathetically.

“My father did not pass away, brother,” she counters softly; “he was killed.”

“That must have been very hard for a young girl, for certainly you were not very old then.”

It takes some moments for Sansa to reply. “I was eleven,” she whispers faintly.

“I am terribly sorry for your loss, Miss Stark. Your father was widely admired for his honesty and integrity. He was a fine soldier too: brave and fair and merciful, when it was warranted.”

“Thank you…Why are we talking about my father? Because you think that is the reason why I am here? It was so very long ago.”

“I don’t know the reason why you are here, Miss Stark: that is for you to discover, with the help of your doctor. But I do know from some experience that those who suffer loss at a tender age often mistrust or even reject social conventions because they have lost faith in them. Young men will do so more openly, with rebellion and even criminal activity; young women are more likely to do so privately, and turn their anger in on themselves and their own bodies.” He stopped suddenly and nodded further ahead where the fog was just beginning to lift some more. “Would you like to walk further down towards the water? I would offer to race you; but neither of us is wearing the proper shoes.” He lifts the hem of his robe slightly to show her that he wore old sandals.

Sansa smiles at that. She would love to race down to the beach but would likely turn an ankle in the wooden clogs that she has been given to wear. Then as they walk she reflects on what he has just said.

“Forgive me, Elder Brother, I appreciate your concern, and your kind words about my father but the incident at my aunt’s was an accident truly; I-”

“Is it an accident that you don’t eat?” he counters swiftly, cutting off her excuses. “Forgive me, Miss Stark, if I seem blunt when I want to be kind: please know that it is because I care for your well-being. Tell me: have you ever had a pet?”

Sansa stops in her tracks and turn to stare at him. _How does he know?_ She nods curtly now and resumes walking by his side when he makes not to notice her reaction.

“Did you see to it that your pet was fed and exercised and cared for?”

 _I am not your pet…nor anyone else’s_ , she wants to protest; but he talks on without waiting for a reply.

“Of course you did…because it was in your care: you were responsible for it.” He turns to look at her now. “I am the Elder Brother of the Quiet Isle, and this facility is my responsibility, and all those here are in my care. Please, Miss Stark: let us care for you. I promise you that we mean you no harm; quite the contrary, in fact: we wish you to be well. I am not such a monk or an old man that I would not wish to see a lovely young woman happy and healthy and living her life in the world…as you should be doing.”

 _Then let me go home._ But she cannot seem to lift her eyes to his anymore; nor is it her nature to talk back.

“We have walked rather far, and I must get back. Come now,” he takes her gently by the elbow and steers her back towards the building where she will be stripped of her clothing and locked back in her bare and cheerless chamber…more of a cell really; and she is a prisoner and not his guest. She feels her arm stiffen in resistance to his light grasp but he does not respond by either tightening his grip or letting her go.

“I have many patients of my own here. Oh, yes,” he tells her when she glances at him in surprise. “I am a trained counsellor and I counsel veterans mostly. As a former soldier I understand their suffering, and the cause of their suffering: they have little patience with anyone who has not served in combat, believing they don’t know what it is like…and they are right for the most part. But everyone has their own private battles, haven’t they? Private wars they believe no one else can possibly understand.” He stops and turns to her now and smiles kindly. “I hope to make the time to come by and see you again, Miss Stark, if you do not mind. In the meantime I will keep you in my prayers. Please…do send for me if you need me for anything.”

He gives her arm one last reassuring squeeze, and his kind eyes seem to melt away her resentment of him and his concern.

“Thank you, Elder Brother. I…Thank you for escorting me on the walk. It felt good to be outdoors, though I confess I would have liked to race on the sand,” she jests meekly.

“I understand but…try to take your life at a slower pace, Miss Stark, if only while you are here. You cannot run from yourself forever.”

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Bored in her chamber, Sansa falls into a fitful sleep on top of the bare mattress. She dreams of running through a fog so thick that she cannot see where she is going and though she cannot hear her footfalls, she can hears her own breathing so loudly that she feels that she is not alone. Soon she realizes that Lady is running ahead of her and it is her panting that she hears.

_Lady, my Lady: wait for me!_

Her heart soars as she hears the crunch of the leaves beneath her feet and sees the mist clear to reveal the red leaves and white bark of the heart tree, and she knows that she is running in the godswood with her Lady, and her mother and father are in the keep with the rest of her family and then she comes awake with a terrible jolt and sits up gasping for breath and turns to see an attendant pushing into her chamber with a plastic tray. She wants to weep when she realizes once again where she is and how she got here and then she very nearly gives a bitter laugh to see the tiny fluted paper cup that holds her medication.

 _They put me in here for taking pills, and then they give me pills,_ she notes ironically.

“I got to see you take this, miss; be a good girl now and don’t make me keep the others waiting,” the large woman tries to coax her even as she looms large over Sansa with her arms crossed.

Against all her instincts and despite her desire to acquiesce to the demands that will get her released, Sansa stares into the small cup at the little pills at the bottom and grimaces. She is reminded of Arya’s face when she tried to offer her tea and make her play with dolls, and forces herself to toss it back with her eyes tightly closed. The attendant holds out a drinking cup now but instead of water, Sansa sees the steaming brown liquid and blanches.

“Beef broth, miss. Get it down’ye. Doctor’s orders; or you stay in again tomorrow-“

Sansa almost gags on the broth. Just the smell of beef and the slight slickness of the fat from the marrow make her feel that she is ingesting something foul and rancid, and her insides are screaming for her to stop, stop, or to void this poison from her body. She has to stop drinking.

“I’m going to be sick,” she gasps.

“No, y’aren’t; and yer not half done. Go on, just a bit more.”

Sansa can only manage a few more sips before tears spring to her eyes. “Please…please, I can’t…”

“Awright then, ye did good, miss. Take a deep breath now, that’s it; and another. Don’t bring it back up now ‘cause we’ve orders not t’clean it. Someone’ll come by t’take ye to th’toilet later.”

Humiliated, Sansa shuts her eyes tightly again as she feels her stomach roil and her belly tighten and she struggles to ignore the horrid taste of the broth in her mouth and throat and burning feeling of bile rising beneath. She pulls her knees up to her chest and whispers frantically to herself, praying not to be sick even as she wishes to purge herself and feel clean again.

_Mother, Robb: please come and get me; don’t forget me here like you did in Kings Landing. I want to go home; I just wanted to go home. Please._

She hears the attendant continue down the hall, absently humming a tune. Sansa thinks she recognizes it, if only faintly, and begins to hum it herself. After a moment, the words come back to her.

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray…_

She sings sweetly, softly but haltingly, as the words come back to her slowly. She sings them again and again until she can do it without stumbling.

_Gentle Mother, strength of women,_

_help out daughters through this fray,_

_soothe the wrath and tame the fury._

_teach us all a kinder way._

The hymn reminds her of the Elder Brother, and of his words about private battles. She thought of her own mother, and of her strength when her father had been killed. Everyone had admired her for taking her husband’s place until her eldest son came of age, and how she kept him with her to tutor him in the ways of his father. It had taken all of her strength and all of her time; no one could blame her for following the old custom of warding out younger children. There had been no reason for her not to trust her husband’s oldest friend and his family; and Sansa had thought herself fortunate to go to Kings Landing and live with the the family of her father’s oldest friend Robert Baratheon. She had also worked hard to help her family and to support her mother, and she sometimes felt that it was all too much for her: she was only eleven, and soon after turned twelve, and she wanted comfort, and to cry for her father, and even to have fun again and maybe have someone to look after her. She thought she would have that with the Baratheons.

_Stupid: Joffrey and Cersei were right about that. It wasn’t mother’s fault, or Robb’s: I never really told them. They can’t have known…_

Sansa’s tummy lurches again. She rushes to her door and pounds her fist against the heavy wood.

“Please! Please, help me: I need the toilet,” she hears herself call though she is mortified at her indelicacy.

 _They aren’t treating me like a lady; so mayhaps it matters little if I don’t behave as one._ She pounds again.

“Please!”

…….

The doctor is wearing a wrap dress is a deep red that Sansa thinks of as blood-red; her long nails are manicured the colour of brick. She wonders idly how many shades of red there can possibly be and if this woman wears them all, as her doctor makes quick notes in her open file before smiling at her from behind her desk.

“Are you sleeping well, Sansa?”

“I’m sleeping too much,” she replies evenly. “I haven’t anything else to do.”

The Red Woman nods her head slightly in acknowledgement. “I thought it best that you stay in your chamber to rest and think. In time, you may be permitted to participate in group activities or use the library…under supervision, of course.”

“I didn’t realize there is a library,” Sansa remarks with interest. “Might I…would it be possible to have books brought to me?” She wants to appear humble and conciliatory; she knows without being told that it will not do to make demands.

Red Woman gives her head the slightest shake. “Reading would distract you from the reason that you are here, Sansa. You needs think about yourself and your life; not escape into books.” She pauses before launching into what Sansa considers her prying. “You said the day before yesterday that it made no difference if sex was consensual; and I told you why I thought it was important,” she reminds her. “Have you given any thought to what I said?”

“You are right, of course,” Sans replies unhesitatingly with a sure nod. “I don’t know how I came to say such a thing; but that night is a muddle I am afraid,” she tells her self-depricatingly. “You said yourself that I had too much champagne-”

“Did this young man take advantage of you?” she counters quickly.

Sans tried to think of how to evade the question. She does not want more trouble in the Vale which would doubtless happen if she were to level an accusation against a high-born boy like Harrold Hardyng.

“I- I don’t…I’m sure he didn’t. He…he is from a good family,” she stammers as she remembers him taking a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket near the dumb waiter and beckoning her outside. And she’d gone along willingly; she should have known…how could have known?

_You’re a wolf._

“Let’s start at the beginning then-”

“I truly don’t remember-”

“I don’t mean that time, Sansa,” the woman says patiently. “I meant let’s start back to when you first became sexually active. You are a very pretty girl: did you have a lot of attention from young men?”

Sansa’s brow furrows in confusion at her words. “I…how much is a lot?”

The doctor smiles slightly and tries another approach. “Who was the first boy you kissed; truly kissed: do you remember?”

“I- Yes…I remember: he kissed me though, the first time. It was Theon.”

“Was he a friend of yours? How old were you then?”

“Theon was my father’s ward; send by his father, Balon Greyjoy to be raised at Winterfell. His mother became _unstable_ ,” she says the word carefully because she knows that is what this woman thinks of _her_. “They said it was from grief because of the deaths of her eldest sons.” Sansa had never understood why warding her youngest son to another family should help with her loss; that is until she was also sent away to be warded. “I was twelve,” she remembers now, “and had just flowered.” _And just lost my father_ , she thinks without mentioning.

“How old was Theon?”

Sansa pauses to think, though she knows the answer. “Theon was eighteen; he was a little older than Robb, my eldest brother. He knew, I mean, I guess he heard…that I had flowered. We always had staff at the house and, well, they were mostly loyal but they did like to talk. He said it was to congratulate me. He laughed and then kissed both my cheeks, like I had won some honour,” she drops her eyes to recount it.

The Red Woman notices and bends her head to make eye contact again. “Did you consider that your first true kiss? Or was there more, Sansa?”

Sansa shakes her head. “H-he whispered to me…close to my ear. He said I was almost a woman, but I’d be a real woman someday soon and he’d be there that day too. Then he leaned in and kissed me for real…on the lips”

Her doctor’s brows draw together in concern. “Did you understand what he meant by what he said, Sansa?”

“Not really; I felt stupid and embarrassed but…there was something about it that I liked: he- he seemed to treat me differently, not like a little girl. Theon was very handsome then.”

“A harmless crush is one thing; but he did make a rather suggestive comment to a young girl. Did he kiss you again?”

“Not for a while,” Sansa recounts. “I was sent to Kings Landing soon after, to be warded to my father’s friend. I was sad to leave my family, and the North, but,” she takes a deep breath now, “Kings Landing seemed to exciting, and the Baratheon home was breathtaking: more of a palace than a home. I went to the same school as their daughter Myrcella. I went home often though, at first anyway,” she tells the doctor, “and, well, Theon would be there too. He stayed at Winterfell and went to a local college while he worked for one of the Stark companies.”

“And he kissed you again?”

Sansa shrugs. “A little…sometimes. There were always parties at holidays: it was a tradition my mother wanted to continue,” she tells her as she remembers her mother’s strained smile and stiff countenance at such time: greeting guests alone, or with Robb, instead of by her husband’s side. “Theon let me try his champagne, and we would dance. Sometimes I kissed him,” she blushes, “and he would laugh at me and say I needed more practice.”

Sansa omits telling her how Theon would look her over and let his hands skim over her behind or brush against her now-rounded breasts when they danced or kissed in the shadows of the hall or dark corners of the yard; of how he would push her away if she kissed him back too eagerly or touched him. _Jailbait_ , he had called her once, and she had felt insulted and somehow dirty even as he has laughed at her. She felt ashamed and sick at the same time and she can feel the nausea in the tummy even now.

“You’d hardly know it though,” he had told her as his eyes took in her body hungrily; even in her formal dresses, he could make her feel naked. “You already look a woman in all the right places. Soon, Sansa: soon I’ll make you a real woman,” he had smiled confidently. “You’re going to love it, I promise you.”

“Practice,” Doctor Melisandre repeats heavily. “And did he give you this _practice_?”

“We kissed some more,” Sansa tells her simply. The incidents that followed over the years, such as those in the stables, when he would press her against the wall of his horse’s stall and unbutton her blouse to fondle her and tongue her nipples was not something she wanted to remember; nor the many times he had taken her parking when he had been supposed to be teaching her to drive, breathing hot on her neck while he put his hands under her skirt and touched her through the fabric of her panties, and then in her panties, _inside_ her. He had stroked himself to release the first time; then he had taught her to do it for him: groaning and sighing and laughing as he spurt sticky seed over her hands and down her legs. He no longer called her jailbait; he had only done so when she was younger and still eager to learn, but she didn't feel like either any more which oddly seemed to amused him. She did learn a lot though. She cannot say why she never stopped him, why she never just said ‘no’, except that she did not know that she could. Having let him do so much, so far, it had seemed almost rude, like she had been lying to him all along. Besides, she did not want anyone to know, and if she made him angry he might tell someone.

“Did you want to kiss him, or for him to kiss you?”

Sansa purses her lips now. “Not anymore…after a while: he never talked sweetly…he acted like he was entitled to me. Theon was always kind of smug, my mother said: though she thought his attitude had gotten better when he offered to teach me to drive; but now I knew what she had meant. I didn’t feel special anymore, just…nothing, or maybe disappointed. He didn’t love me,” she remarks without bitterness.

“Do you want to be loved, Sansa?”

Sansa looks away for a moment before giving her answer. “Everyone wants to be loved.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

“Sansa, it is clear, and very unfortunate, that you feel you did not have a positive initiation to your own sexuality. Instead someone you should have been able to trust behaved in a predatory manner towards you and took advantage of your innocence and trusting nature as a young girl,” Doctor Melisandre concludes. “I’m sorry for that. I am certain that it is no comfort to know that it is not that unusual but…please believe that I do not judge you for any of what happened to you; I am only trying to understand, and to help you understand, how your life and your thinking may have been harmed by this experience,” she finishes solemnly, “I think we have made some progress today,” she continues encouragingly. “How do you feel?”

Sansa shrugs uncertainly. “I’m fine, I guess. It’s not pleasant to remember…I feel rather foolish now.”

“You cannot expect your younger self to have known the things you know now, Sansa. I don’t want you to judge yourself either.” She changes subjects now. “I am pleased that you have begun to eat, if only a little. I have asked the nutritionist to choose foods that will help treat your anemia, but also to ensure they are easily digestible. Sometimes the transition can be hard on your system: how are you faring?”

Her stomach clenches even at the mention of food: she has suffered both diarrhea and constipation in the last day and a half.

“Perhaps…” Sansa ventures, “perhaps less meat, and smaller portions would help? I get quite nauseous just from looking at those full trays. I can’t seem to finish what they bring me; and some things I cannot eat at all. And…they need to let me use the toilet more frequently,” she admits sheepishly. She hates sitting there with her gown raised and with an attendant watching her so that she does not purge; but she has had no choice and so she doubles over and hold her head in her hands so that she at least does not have to see that she is being watched.

“Hm, the iron supplements you are being given are made from plant extracts; and the B vitamins should not cause any adverse effects. I can prescribe a milder sedative to see if that helps.”

“Is…is that what I am taking? They haven’t told me,” she asks warily.

The Red Woman smiles into her file. “The sedative is just to help you with the transition, Sansa. Most patients have difficulty accepting involuntary treatment. I appreciate that you have been cooperative however I cannot take risks with your safety, and that of the staff.”

Sansa smarts at that: do they really think her uncontrollable, or violent? She would show them. She knew how to be a lady, even when everything was wrong.

“Might I…when might I be permitted to go outside again…please?’

Doctor Melisandre glances up at her. “Let me check with the matron on your ward, Sansa, and see if there are any suitable activities for you. Please…don’t get your hopes up yet: therapy takes time.”

Sansa nods obediently, and she hopes she does not look as disappointed as she feels. Since her dream of Lady, she feels a strong need to visit a godswood; but she also knows that there will be no godswood on the Quiet Isle. Even so, just trees and sky and wind will seem like sanctuary to her compared to her cell-like chamber.

She doesn’t care for the attendant who escorts her back to her chamber: he is not from her ward and he holds her by her upper arm and then grips it tightly and almost shoves her back into her room before slamming the door. Still, she thanks him out of habit, though his back is already turned and she can hear him curse as he fumbles with the key to the lock. Her lunch tray is waiting: a salad of spinach and other greens without any dressing, she is pleased to see, and a brown bun covered in seeds that she does not think she wants but she is surprised that when she touches a tentative finger to it that it is still warm. She tears it open and smells that it is freshly baked, and the aroma both soothes and sickens her. They always had freshly-baked bread and buns at table in Winterfell, but the thought of a bakery reminds her of something else.

_Lemon cakes._

Sansa gags violently and feels the bile rise in her throat. _No, don’t!_ She knows they have been told not to clean her sick and so she forces herself to swallow it back down. It burns and brings tears to her eyes but still she forces herself to swallow and breathe. She hurries to pick up the plastic cup: it is milk instead of the water she wants but she takes several quick sips; then she realizes that she still hold the brown bun in her hand. She flings the bun across the room. Tiny seeds scatter on the stone floor. In the depthless silence of her locked room, they echo like hailstones on a tin roof.

Sansa stifles a sob and thinks for the millionth time: _please, let me go home._

She clutches the pillow from her bed to her middle and weeps briefly into it before raising her head and resolutely wiping away her tears. She must eat the salad or else she will be kept in her chamber; she will tell them that she dropped the bun and did not wish to eat it off the floor. She manages to drink nearly half the milk.

She sits on her bed the rest of midday, with her knees drawn up to her chest and looking up at the sky through the high window. The pale sunlight fades and clouds pass over and she watches the sky turn pinky-orange and then violet and then dark blue. Once it is dark, they bring her another plastic tray: greens again, but boiled this time, with boiled carrots and a thin slice of white-meat chicken. Under a small covered dish are blackberries in a thick yellow pudding. Sansa twists her mouth in disgust and claps the cover back over the top. She eats the greens, one carrot and one mouthful of chicken: they can’t say that she isn’t trying.

She cannot help but think that she has done the same in her session with the Red Woman. She has given her morsels, but not the entire truth. She may not have wanted Theon, especially when he became smug and overly self-assured about his power over her, and when he did things like squeeze her tender young breasts too hard and push his fingers inside her; but she did like that he wanted her. She had liked Joffrey’s attention too. Robert and Cersei’s eldest son had seemed a shining prince to Sansa when she first came to live in the Baratheon’s Red Keep mansion in King’s Landing, and she had warmed to his flattering attention and sweet words. But then he had suddenly entered her room without knocking one night while she was changing into her nightgown and pushed her onto the bed and called her filthy names under his breath while his hands groped at her and tried to force her knees apart. Sansa had been so shocked and frightened that she could only gasp and cry: what had she done? Why was he hurting her? But Myrcella had seen them; Joffrey had not even bothered to close the door, and the girl had run for her parents. Sansa had thought that Robert had killed Joffrey when he pulled him off her and struck him so hard that he fell to the floor, but Cersei had cradled him and helped him up, then looked at Sansa accusingly and asked Robert what he had expected would happen by keeping “that Northern girl”  in their home. Sansa cringed under the woman’s hateful stare. She felt as though Cersei _knew_ : knew about all the things she had done in the stables with Theon, knew that she was not a good girl. Sansa reddened from shame, and apologized meekly to the Baratheons for the trouble she had caused. She had spent the next day in her room and, by evening and with Sansa’s mother’s approval, she had been enrolled as a full-time boarder at the girl’s school she attended in the capitol. It had been Myrcella’s septa and the chauffeur who had accompanied her to the gate. She never spoke with the Baratheon family again, expect when she saw Myrcella at school.

The girls at Kings Landing Ladies’ Academy had been highborn and proper maidens, like Sansa, and she made many friends and felt safe there. Still, it was normal for them to lament the absence of boys and also to talk about them constantly, especially the boys from the Kingsguard Preparatory School with whom they mixed for teas and dances. Some girls giggled and bragged about boys that liked them and had even kissed them. Sansa would listen and smile faintly, not sure whether to pity them or envy them. She didn’t think any of them had ever had an older boy’s fingers inside them, down there, or held a hard _thing_ in her hand and had it _spurt_ stuff on them. She didn’t tell anyone; she knew they would call her the same filthy names that Joffrey had called her. She was just shy of fifteen then. Theon said that he was waiting for her to turn sixteen, so that he could have her for all for himself: to make her a woman, as he termed it. But Sansa had learned from Joffrey’s attention and that of the other boys from the prep school who looked at her and kissed her and touched her as well: she was pretty and they liked her because they wanted to be with her, and so she made different plans for herself than Theon Greyjoy.

…….

“I will not ask you to recount this young man Theon’s taking of your maidenhead, Sansa; but I think-”

“Theon didn’t take my maidenhead, Doctor Melisandre.” Sansa has been waiting for the chance to tell her. Mayhaps she won’t think her such a fool; though she was not so certain that her other choice was any smarter, in hindsight; but at least it had been _her_ choice.

The Red Woman, dressed in a matching ruby-red sweater and pants outfit, once again appears surprised, much to Sansa’s satisfaction. She doesn’t want to be so childish, really; it is contrary to her true nature: courteous and eager to please, but it irks her to have to tell this woman her life story in order to win her freedom, and she resents that the woman pretends to know her and understand how she feels. Sansa guards her heart well; and no one can have her heart without her permission. Only she knows how she truly feels.

“Forgive me, Sansa, but the way you described your relations with Theon led me to believe that he had succeeded in his intentions towards you,” the doctor explains.

_Oh, so did he…_ She wants to laugh now; but she refrains. “I decided to make my _own_ decision in this matter,” she says instead.

“May I ask then…how old where you when this took place?”

“I was sixteen,” Sansa tells her. She had thought to hurry and not wait until Theon tried to make good on his intention to have her.

“And was it what you wanted; or was it to spite Theon, Sansa?”

Sansa blinks; and it is her turn to be surprised. _Checkmate,_ she cannot help thinking. The Red Woman is shrewd, and cannot be fooled too much, it seems; and so Sansa gives her a straight answer: “I guess…I will never know.”

…….

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief when she learned that Theon would not be at Winterfell when she returned for Robb’s graduation. He had been sent on some business trip to White Harbor as part of his internship at Stark Industries. She was sixteen now, and Theon had been sending her hints that he intended to make good on his promise to make her a woman: he had sent her postcards of the Maiden that the Septas at her girls’ school had thought appropriate but she had recognized them as teasing at best and threats to make good on his plan to claim her maidenhead at worst. She hadn’t answered them; but she had dreaded returning to her home and family, fearing that she would needs tell them about Theon and so discover what they had really been doing during her driving and riding lessons. Sansa had no wish to disappoint her mother who thought her a perfect young lady, especially since Sansa had helped after her father died; her mother had suffered enough disappointment. Sansa has never asked her mother to return home to Winterfell, though she thinks she would like to be with her family again: she had never even told her about Joffrey Baratheon, and so he has remained all these years in Kings Landing.

Robb is planning to stay in the North for college to be near his mother and the businesses. He also plays rugby for the Northern League, and many of his teammates are at the formal reception her mother holds in the great hall of Winterfell. Sansa shines now in her pretty pale blue strapless dress with a fitted satin bodice and tea-length tulle skirts in matching blue and violet layers. She has pinned up the sides of her long hair and left the rest to fall down her back. She circulates through the enormous room and greets guests, mostly people that she has known all her life and who knew her father. They ask about her own schooling and her life in Kings Landing and so she smiles dutifully and makes small talk with them and when she feels lightheaded, she did not eat all day so as to look good in her new gown, she absently takes a bite of a small cake from a passing tray and blanches.

_Lemon cake._

Sansa’s heart stops and she struggles to keep the smile on her face even as she feels sour bile rise in her throat and tears fill her head.

_No, please not here; not tonight._

When another waiter circulates with a tray of champagne glasses she unthinkingly stops him to reach for one when she sees her mother watching her from across the room. Lady Catelyn hesitates only briefly before nodding. Sansa lifts a crystal goblet of pink champagne and sips delicately to rinse the taste of lemon from her mouth before wrinkling her nose.

“Don’t you like it, then? I thought pretty girls liked pretty things,” a deep voice speaks from next to her and she looks up to see bright eyes, a warm grin, and a jaw like a butcher’s block. “I’m an ale man, myself,” he continues and raises his tankard to her before drinking a long pull.

Sansa smiles prettily for him despite her near-nausea. “It’s wonderful, truly; but the bubbles tickled my nose. I’m Sansa Stark,” she introduces herself softly. Her septa had told her a soft voice made men lean in to hear you, but this young man steps back and his brows shoot up in surprise instead.

“Robb’s little sis? To hear him talk, I thought you’d be a girl in school still.” In a flash he looks her body over as he speaks and Sansa can tell he likes what he sees. She steps a little closer to him but keeps her smile demure.

“I am in school…in King’s Landing. I’m sixteen though,” she drops her eyes and blushes, “maybe that is still a girl to you-”

“Smalljon,” he tells her when she pauses. “Jon Umber Junior, to be exact; but they all call me Smalljon…and you don’t look like a little girl,” he adds as his eyes skim over the tops of her breasts in her gown. Sansa bites her lip as a thought comes to her and, resolved, she takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders to give him a better view and his grin broadens into a sexy smile. She smiles back less demurely this time. Suddenly her brother is upon them.

“Smalljon!” Robb slaps him heartily on the back and Sansa can see her brother has had plenty of ale himself. “I see you’ve met my sister, Sansa,” he smiles brightly.

“You bet,” Smalljon answers with equal heartiness. “Sweet little sixteen,” he says looking at Sansa still.

“Oh-oh,” Robb laughs, “you watch out for him, Sansa: Smalljon likes scoring _off_ the rugby field too…”

“Robb!” Sansa feigns shock at his words, as a lady should. “What an unkind thing to say about your friend!”

“Ah, just jesting….right, Smalljon? You wouldn’t hurt my sister,” he regales him.

“That would be the furthest thing from my mind,” Smalljon assures him, and while his meaning is lost on Robb, Sansa feels herself flush at his suggestive tone.

“I knew you wouldn’t,” Robb jests heartily. “Sansa, Smalljon and I have been working on a joint venture with his father’s company.”

“Our fathers were great friend as well as comrades in arms,” Smalljon tells Sansa now. “He says your father was the finest man he knew, and I know he misses him to this day.”

He means to be kind, but Sansa feels a tightening in her chest and knows her smile has faded.

“That’s kind,” she manages softly, and she finishes her champagne before reaching for another crystal goblet.

“Here, let’s get a picture,” Robb effuses as the photographer their mother has hired comes by and turns his lens to the three of them.

Sansa stands tall and smiles brightly again for the camera, and both her brother and Smalljon put an arm around her for the picture. Smalljon’s hand seems heavier on her back though, and his closer presence seems to soothe her pained heart. He smells fresh and warm and musky all at once, like a man should. She breathes in deeper.

_He’s Northern, and he is older than Robb and bigger than Theon; and he likes me._ Sansa feels warm all over just being near him, especially in the places Theon liked to touch her. She wonders if Smalljon will touch her like that. She is certain that she would like it much better.

“Have you been to Winterfell before…Smalljon?” she asks him now that Robb has wandered off and left them alone again.

He nods thoughtfully. “I did when I was much younger; you were probably only a babe then…but gods, how you gave grown pretty Sansa,” he leans in now as she had hoped he would.

She bites her lip and takes a deep breath; she feels bold and giddy all at once. “Would you like to see more?” Her voice comes out breathy, and he catches her double-entendre easily. He takes her near-empty champagne glass from her hand and places it on a passing tray and hands her yet another.

“You bet I would. Let’s go,” he says.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Sansa feels a strange giddiness as she guides Smalljon through the hallway from the Great Hall to show him the ancient Stark banners and display of weaponry that dates back to before the age of the Andals and the First Men. As he smiles down on her, she can hear herself talk and feel herself smile back at him, but she also feels that there is a another secret version of herself inside watching herself play a part.

_Am I really doing this? Is it truly going to happen? I think he really likes me so he must want me…Will he know that I’m a maiden?_

They stroll through some of the family rooms, through the great library and sitting room as she talks about her family home; and he speaks amusingly about himself when she asks questions and hangs breathily on his answers.  They walk then out into the passageway to the old keep with its cavernous stone rooms, empty of anything but heavy wooden tables and damp, before crossing out into the yard where Sansa slowly crosses the old bailey to the Broken Tower. Smalljon has followed her and opened doors and ushered her through gently with his hand on her back. He has touched her hair, and brushed his fingers down her arm and once left a warm hand on her bare shoulder as they spoke. Sansa is still carrying her third champagne glass, and she knows her giddiness is partly from the bubbly drink: she has never had this much before. They can still hear the voices and laughter and music from the party, and the clear sky is beginning to turn a darker violet-tinged blue as the long day begins to draw to a close.

“It’s such a perfect evening,” Sansa gushes suddenly as she turns to look at her companion. He is gazing at her indulgently and smiles a slow, easy smile.

“Yes, it is,” he agrees as he looks her over in a way that makes her feel flush and warm all over again. She giggles self-consciously now.

Once they reach the tower, she tries the heavy door but it will not give, and so he needs to push it open, which he does with a sexy grunt. She walks in carefully before him in her dainty new heels and heads for the stairs.

_We’re alone now. What happens now? How does it start? Do I do something, or does he?_ She keeps walking once they are both inside.

“The wooden stairs are old,” she tells him, “but they are sturdy. They spiral up and up… There is a wonderful view from the top…all the way to the wolfswood.” Her voice sounds strange to her ears, almost shaky; and her knees suddenly feel weak but Smalljon takes her by the hand and leads her up the winding wooden staircase. Once they reach a landing half-way up, he stops and turns to her.

“I’m going to be worn out if we keep going,” he murmurs, “and I want to save my energy for better things.”

Sansa laughs nervously now. “I- I guess I’m used to it: we used to play in here all the time when we were children.”

“I’m not here to play, Sansa…and neither are you,” he says as he takes her face in his hands and runs his thumb firmly over her bottom lip, “so finish your champagne now…that’s it, drink it down,” he encourages as she raises her crystal goblet to drain it. She feels her head spin now and nearly stumbles and drops the glass.

“Oh!” she exclaims in dismay. _He will think her a stupid girl. I am a stupid girl: I don’t know what I’m doing…_ She is beginning to lose her nerve but Smalljon takes firm control of the situation now.

“Leave that,” he takes the glass from her and sets it down on a nearby window ledge, “and come here.” Though she dumbly steps towards him, he immediately backs her into the cold stone wall. Smalljon dips his head to kiss her: once, twice and then holds his mouth over hers and kisses her deeply, sliding his tongue against hers.

Sansa sighs dreamily and clutches at his biceps through his jacket, certain that her knees really will give out.  As he runs his hands down the length of her torso, her head seems to be drifting away from her body and her insides seem to be turning to warm liquid. She comes back to her body suddenly when she feels his hands grab and snatch at the fluffy skirts of her gown. He is lifting her dress with one hand and grabbing at her thighs and behind with the other, finally rubbing and reaching under her pretty silk panties.

“Hm?” she wonders audibly. Even Theon did not work this fast: he would kiss her and touch her all over before he tried to put his hands _there_.

“Here, step out of them,” Smalljon pants as he grips her behind and hooks his thumbs in her panties and tugs them so they slide down her legs; then he quickly puts his hand back between her legs against the inside of her thigh

Sansa is surprised. Everything is happening so fast and yet her body seems to want this: she nearly swoons when he touches her there and when she grips his arms even tighter, he puts her arms up around his neck and then looks down her front and tugs hard at her bodice. The strapless satin is made with boning: too well-made to rip, and the tight fit keeps it from falling down but his tug was enough so that her breasts are exposed to the nipple and he eagerly pinches one and then dips his head to kiss and lick it before bringing his mouth up to her ear.

“Oh, fuck,” he moans hoarsely, “you’re so pretty, Sansa. You’ve made me so fucking hard.”

She feels herself wrinkle her nose at his crude talk, but she _did_ bring him here and she _did_ want him so he can’t tell him to stop now: she knows that he will be disappointed. He probably won’t like her anymore. Sansa hears the harsh sound of his zipper and his hands are soon back under her dress, pushing aside the layers of delicate tulle and groping her bottom again.

“Come on now: put your legs around me,” he grunts as suddenly he lifts her from under her behind. Sansa squeaks and scrambles not to fall but he has her thighs in a tight grip and he guides her long legs over his hips. “It’s okay: I got you…you’re okay. Just hang on.”

She shakes her head into his shoulder. Her heart is racing now, and she is as excited as she is frightened. She thinks maybe she should tell him the truth that she has never done this before but she feels something smooth and hard against her and realizes it is too late. “Smalljon…” she breathes in a rush. Then there is the pain, and she is not ready for it.

“Ow! Oh, oh no,” she whimpers but she has whispered and he is not listening. Sansa feels a burning stretch of her insides as he presses her back against the hard stone wall and pushes himself inside her; and the more she tightens in resistance, the harder he presses against her.

“Fuck,” he mutters and pushes into her hard and deep and quick so that she wants to scream.

 Sansa doesn’t scream but she bites down hard on her lip as her eyes sting with tears. She feels torn and burned and bruised but Smalljon grips her with iron strength beneath her thighs as he begins to work himself in and out of her. He jerks her body up and down on his- his- _Oh gods: we are really doing it._  Her legs feel drained and weak but stiff. The skin of her back and shoulders in her strapless dress are being rubbed raw against the rough stone wall behind her. Sansa does feel something, something besides pain: some kind of warmth and tug of want down there, but it is quickly dissipating with the pain and she is confused because this is not at all what she expected. She doesn’t feel like a woman and she doesn’t feel loved but rather she feels like a thing, a prop for his pleasure, since clearly he is enjoying what he is doing: he is panting and grunting and blowing hot breath over her neck where he has wedged his head. His grunts are from deep in his throat and he mutters like Joffrey did that night he pushed her onto her bed but he is not saying filthy curses, just her name and the gods’ and repeated _ohs_ and _oh yeahs._

“Oh yeah, that’s it…oh…ughn…oh yeah, here I come…I’m coming, Sansa: gods, I’m coming so hard… _aaaah-uughn_ ,” he draws his exclamation out as he pushes into her deeper than ever so that she bites her lip and shuts her eyes tightly, wincing at the pain and feeling used and disappointed and humiliated.

_It was supposed to be special_ , she thinks helplessly. _It was nothing like they said it would be; nothing like in books or songs .Why wasn’t it right? Did I do it wrong?_

Smalljon grunts again as he lifts her off of him and sets her with her feet on the ground. Sansa is wobbly and braces her hands on the walk behind her and cannot bring herself to look at him.

“Hey, are you okay? Oh shit, blood! Sansa…Sansa, this wasn’t your first time, was it?”

His voice sounds urgent though Sansa is not certain if he is concerned or angry and so she simply nods her head and whispers hoarsely:

“Yes.”

He curses again, though not harshly. “I wish you’d told me… Gods, Sansa…I don’t feel good about this,” he tells her.

She looks up at him now from under her eyelashes. “I- I’m sorry…Truly, I’m sorry…I thought it would be-”

“Look, it’s normal to be curious so…no harm done, right? I mean, you’re okay, right?” He has taken her arm and is looking down searchingly at her.

“I- No, I- I’m alright…I- I wanted to-” She stops talking: she is not certain what it is she wanted now.

“We’ll keep this between the two of us then,” he nods at her until she mirrors him and nods agreement. “After all, I don’t think Robb or your mother would like this one bit, and, well…I have a girlfriend back home so…better if no one ever knows, right?”

_He has a girlfriend already. Why did he want me? He doesn’t care for me. What was I thinking?_

“Yes,” she agrees dispiritedly. “It- it would be better if no one ever knows.”

…….

She can feel the sticky blood and his seed on the inside of her thighs under her dress as she makes her shaky way down the stairs again. He is leading the way this time, hurriedly and with only casual talk over his shoulder, like he wants to be away from her now. Sansa can taste the lemon cake and champagne in her throat and mouth and feels sick again. Once they exit the door of the tower, Sansa rushes to the nearby bushes and brings up the contents of her stomach all at once. She cringes that Smalljon has seen her throw up but then it all goes from bad to worse when she hears her mother calling her name. She hopes she does not faint as well.

“Sansa! Sansa, what are you doing out here? What is wrong with you?”

Her mother rushes over now in her beautiful gown and jewelry, the perfect lady, and looks at her in a mix of concern and shocked indignation.

“She had a little too much champagne,” Smalljon tells her mother casually. “I brought her outside to walk it off and get some air.”

“Sansa!” Her mother looks reproachful now. “How many glasses did you have?”

“Two…Mother; no, three,” she confesses contritely.

“All without any dinner either. Really Sansa, you should have known better; what if you had been sick in front of our guests at Robb’s graduation reception? Oh, forgive me, Smalljon: I did not mean to imply that you were not our guest but you have been such a friend to Robb…and now to Sansa…I hope you are grateful, Sansa, for all Smalljon has done for you,” she prompts her.

“Y-yes, Mother,” she agrees and turns to him now. “Thank you, Smalljon.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

There had been thunder rumbling in the distance since early daylight. Now, at evenfall, the sky is completely dark but for the constant flashes of lightning followed by the resoundingly loud crashes of thunder. A tempestuous storm is battering the Quiet Isle, and from inside her small room Sansa can hear other patients shouting and crying; but she is curled up on her mattress as she quietly hums to herself and remembers another great storm many years ago when she was a girl at Winterfell. She had run to her parents’ room and had curled up between them under their blanket as her mother had stroked her auburn hair and her father had crooned comforting words to her.

_You’re alright, sweet girl: it’d just be the gods showing us what they can do. You’re safe with us, sweet Sansa._ And she had been. She had been safe and loved and happy. Years later, she had even curled up with Lady-

Sansa sucks in her breath suddenly as a sharp pain slices through her. Her stomach churns and she feels the familiar urge to void herself of all her hurt and pain and memories; but she also knows too well that she is watched. There is no place she can be sick in private, unless she were to escape out into the storm.

She closes her eyes again and thinks of running, running as fast as she can across the beach outside while taking great gulps of fresh, cool air; outrunning the thunder and the bolts of lighting and then running through the driving rain, washing herself clean. She imagines how her lungs would burn, how water would run down through her hair and make her sodden clothes cling to her. Puddles would splash as she brought her feet down, soaking her runners and socks. Maybe she could even run right into the sea and let it take her away from this place, and from everything else.

She hums louder now. The harsh thunder this time was followed by a sharp knock on her door.

“Miss Stark?” Sansa lifts her head from her pillow. It is the Elder Brother: she recognizes his voice.

Before she can rise, the lock is unlatched and the door opened. Startled, Sansa sits up and pulls her patient’s gown down over her knees.

“Miss Stark, are you alright?” he asks. “It’s cold in here,” he remarks before she can reply. “This building can feel damp in a storm such as this; please, will you come to the main hall? There is a fire in the hearth, and hot tea and cocoa for everyone.”

He holds out his hand to her but she looks down at the hospital gown and hesitates. She does not like to be seen like this; even with Doctor Melisandre she feels exposed. Elder Brother understands without asking.

“Bring me a blanket,” he speaks to someone in the hallway. When Sansa stands, he comes to wrap it around her shoulders and puts his hand on her back.

“Follow the others to the hall. I will be there after I have gathered everyone else,” he tells her quietly.

Sansa follows to where the other patients, there cannot be more than ten or twelve of them she notes, are slowly filing down the hallway to a large stone room with a hearth along the far wall between two large windows. There Sansa is overwhelmed and momentarily elated to have such a splendid vista before her eyes after days and days of looking out only at the sky or standing on her chair to see out the high window down to the sea. The view here is not to the sea but instead looks over the walls and across the meadow towards the older monastery buildings surrounded the forest on the other side of the Quiet Isle. The distant trees sway violently in the wind and the dark clouds make the ancient buildings look gloomy and haunted. Still the lightning streaks across the sky and thunder follows. Sansa is again filled with the desire to break free and run through the storm.

“No. No, I don’t want to.”

The voice comes from just outside the door, and Sansa turns her head away from the window.

“Come now, Miss Stokeworth, it’s perfectly safe; and we have tea or cocoa and cookies for you,” the Elder Brother is prompting a heavy-set young woman in her mid-twenties to come into the room from the hallway. But she looks at him with eyes that are half-vacant and half-terrified and resists.

“I don’t want to,” she repeats like a child.

Something compels Sansa to walk over to them now. “Hello,” she says to the woman with a gentle smile, “my name is Sansa. Won’t you come in and have tea with me? Please,” she adds when the woman stares and still hesitates, “I don’t know anyone; and I don’t want to sit by myself.” She smiles encouragingly at her and the woman looks at Elder Brother.

“Let’s you and I sit with Sansa, Miss Stokeworth. It will be warmer by the fire.”

Sansa hurries to pull three chairs together and offers to bring their tea.

“I want cocoa,” the woman asks like a child who expects to be chastened. When Sansa brings it to her happily, Miss Stokeworth only stares open-mouthed. The Elder Brother takes the cup and puts it in her hands.

“Thank you, Miss Stark,” he says with quiet gratitude.

“I am glad to help,” she tells him, and she realizes that she means it. She feels less helpless now that she has been able to help someone else.

“Can I have cookies?” the woman asks in a pained voice. She has the cowed posture and manner of someone constantly berated.

“Yes, of course,” the Elder Brother replies and signals an attendant for a plate. He offers it to her and she immediately takes two cookies but then just as quickly puts one back. “Mother will be mad,” she mumbles. Elder Brother ignores the comment and turns to hold the plate out to Sansa.

“Miss Stark,” he offers casually.

Sansa hesitates: she wants to refuse but she wonders if she is being tested. Before she can reply he withdraws the plate and instead sets it on the low table before them.

“Does your mother get mad at you too?” the older girl asks plaintively. Despite her vagueness, she has shrewdly noticed that Sansa balks to eat; but it is her words that resonate. Sansa is startled to think of her mother, and what she would say to see her now, in this place. _Gods be true, Sansa…_

“Mother says I’m a disappointment,” the girl tells Sansa resignedly and then reaches for two more cookies. Just then there is a blinding flash of lightning in the room immediately followed by a great cracking of thunder. The girl jumps and screams, dropping her mug of cocoa and knocking over the plate of cookies with a crash. Suddenly everyone gathers to them as the Elder Brother tries in vain to soothe the girl before murmuring something to an attendant. Soon they are escorting her away and two exhausted, tight-lipped orderlies arrive to clean up the mess.

“I bloody hates storms,” one mutters. “What genius thought to house screaming crazies on an island in a bay of rough seas?”

_Crazies,_ Sansa thinks as she moves silently away with her tea, no milk, no sugar, to stand back at the great wide window and gaze longingly across the island and the water towards the far distance.

“Saltpans,” the Elder Brother comes in a moment and nods acknowledgement to her staring. “Our ferry runs there most days, though it won’t go out on a day like today. Some of the staff are angry they needs spend the night on the island.” He turns to look at Sansa now. “No one likes to be here against their will,” he observes drily and then smiles when he sees Sansa duck her head and laughs softly. “You were kind to help with Lolys,” he hesitates now, “I’m afraid it’s too soon, or perhaps too late, for her to respond yet.” He looks saddened now.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Sansa begins, and the man remembers himself.

“No, and you don’t need to. Forgive me, Miss Stark: I should not be discussing other patients, nor burdening you with concerns beyond your own. But I’m encouraged to see you looking better already. I hope the new diet is helping. Just remember,” he leans in confidentially and lowers his gravelly voice, “try to keep the food in, and let the hurt and anger out…not the other way around.” He gives her elbow a gentle squeeze, and walks away unhurriedly.

“Elder Brother,” Sansa calls so suddenly that she surprises herself, and the man turns in the same unhurried fashion.

“I- I would like to walk out again with you…sometime,” she just manages to tell him.

He nods. “I would like that too, Miss Stark.” He looks past her and out the window. “But let’s wait until the storm passes,” he answers significantly as he raises his brows, and Sansa thinks she understands. He wants her to make more progress, whatever that may mean, before he allows her more freedom. She shifts on her feet. She does not know why she wishes to please this man but she does; he seems to have some sort of faith in her. So she nods timidly, and the man looks almost proud.

…….

The winds are still driving the heavy rains to wash over the island and Sansa finds the noise strangely soothing as she once again resumes her curled up posture on her thin mattress. The attendants and orderlies were quick to round up the crazies and heard them back to their cells once the Elder Brother left them. Sansa had resented being taken from the warmth of the fire and the expansive view and had not wanted to give up the blanket given to her by Elder Brother but she found that she had not wanted the make the effort of resisting. She wonders vaguely if it were the tranquilizers that Doctor Melisandre had mentioned or simply if the Elder Brother’s presence had pacified her.

_Let the hurt and anger out._

She closes her eyes and lets out a deep breath that she had not realized that she was holding. Let it out where, and then what? Would it be gone? Sansa did not believe so. Hurt was like a tough and jagged scar: it never went away but marked you forever, and the pain that caused it kept coming back whenever you thought about it. Better to think of other things, and to keep busy: with school, with running, with men…

_Jon._

No, she commands herself sternly, don’t think of him: it hurts too much. Despite her admonition, tears well up behind her eyes and her throat tightens. _He never loved you: you were just a little fool._ She begins to cry softly regardless.

_Why, Jon?_

…….

Though the storm has kept staff away from the island for two days, Doctor Melisandre nevertheless picks up where they had left off. Sansa has told her the story of Smalljon, but left out the details of the lemon cake, as well as the depth of her disappointment in her own decision. She was so disillusioned by the circumstances of the loss of her maidenhead that she had decided to swear off boys and romance, declaring off-hand to her new friend Margaery that it is all nonsense and lies and that none of the stories and songs are true. To her surprise, her friend had laughed merrily and then puts her soft hand on Sansa’s arm reassuringly.

“Well, whoever he was and whatever he did or didn’t do Sansa, remember that there are plenty of good men out there who love pretty girls like you and will treat you well and make you happy. Don’t let one bad apple ruin your fun: so many of us get to try so little before we’re old and gray,” she winks.

“But he,” she swallows before continuing, “he already _had_ a girlfriend,” Sansa whispers confidentially though she has never told anyone that she went all-the-way with Smalljon. She has heard the filthy names that the other girls use to describe girls like that, and Sansa doesn’t think she is one of those; at least she doesn’t want anyone else to think she is. She has grown away from her many friends, instead spending more time with Margaery who joined the track team when she and her older brother Loras joined their father in Kings Landing that year. Loras was a star sprinter for the Kingsguard Academy, and even better looking than Joffrey. “Why…why did he want to kiss _me_ then?”

Margaery stops lacing her shoes and looks at Sansa lovingly.

“Why Sansa, don’t you know how beautiful and sweet you are? Many men probably would like to do much more than just kiss you…even if they have wives, or girlfriends…or boyfriends,” she teases and Sansa gives a shocked shriek. “Septons, even,” she adds and Sansa laughs harder, “and Septas!”

“Oh Margaery,” Sansa breathes once she has stopped laughing, “what would I do without you and Loras?”

“Run alone? Seriously, Sansa, you must promise to visit Highgarden one day, please? Say you will and then let’s go running.”

Sansa smiles and stands up from the bench outside the school gym. “I promise…and I’ll race you!”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Sansa taps her bare feet nervously on the stone floor beneath her straight-back chair across from the Red Woman, as she thinks of her sometimes. Not surprisingly her doctor notices.

“Are you anxious, Sansa?”

“Only to run,” Sansa replies truthfully. “I become rather restless when I cannot run every day, and now it has been over a fortnight-“

Doctor Melisandre nods calmly. Her fitted dress is cherry red and has a high slit up one leg. Sansa can see the lacy top of her stocking on one side. “Unfortunately, I do not feel ready to give you such freedom, Sansa; and there is no one to accompany you on runs.”

As always, Sansa smarts at being watched.

“Perhaps if you tethered my ankle to a post, I could run in circles,” she is surprised to hear herself reply out loud. “Oh,” she thinks better of her reply now, “forgive me, doctor. I-” She does not know how to explain her impertinence, mayhaps it’s the glimpse of stocking; but then she sees the Red Woman start to smile.

“You have a sense of humour, Sansa,” she almost laughs, “and a sharp wit.” She eyes Sansa shrewdly. “I suspect that you don’t use it often.”

Sansa feels her face turning red. “I’m sorry: I didn’t mean to be rude,” she nearly whispers contritely.

“I hadn’t thought that you were rude; in fact I find it refreshing that you would let your guard down with me. You do not speak your mind very often, and that it is another consequence of you being so very hard on yourself.”

“I…I don’t know what you mean,” Sansa confesses uncomfortably. Why does this woman think she knows her so well?

“Why did you help with Lolys the other night, Sansa?”

“What?” _Of course she knows: I am watched, after all._ “I…she was frightened…I couldn’t just leave her.”

“Yes, you could have, Sansa: we have attendants, and the Elder Brother was assisting her. You could have kept to yourself and done nothing and no one would have thought anything of it, or any less of you,” the woman reasons.

Sansa’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Is that what I am supposed to do? Is it wrong to help people?”

“This is not about what you are _supposed_ to do but rather _why_ you do the things you do…or don’t do. But no, Sansa, it is rarely wrong to want to help people; I am just trying to determine whether you are making a choice in the matter: do you like to help people, or do you feel that you have to?”

Sansa remembers feeling less helpless next to Lolys: was that kindness? But that came after; it wasn’t the reason she helped her.

“I like to help, though…I’m not sure that I know any other way: it’s how I was raised. You said no one would have thought less of me, but _I_ would have thought less of me.”

“Where you raised not to talk back? Or speak up for yourself? Do you fear others will think less of you or not like you?”

“Well…yes, I like for other people to like me,” Sansa insists defensively. “Is that so wrong?” she asks again.

“It can be, Sansa, if you let others take advantage of you, or hurt you. This friend of your brother’s, the one who took your maidenhead: you felt that you could not say no to him, even though you say you felt used-“

“I was young. I was confused…I thought I knew what I wanted but…it wasn’t the way I thought it would be…oh, what matter now? It was so long ago,” Sansa tells her dispiritedly.

“You were ten-and-six then, Sansa,” the doctor reminds her in the arcane way of the Common Tongue, “and you haven’t even reached twenty years. Well, I guess it seems long ago to you; I forget time passes more quickly as we get older,” she admits wryly.

Sansa looks at her closely now. She does not seem old; but she cannot truly guess the woman’s age: her skin is youthful and glowing but her reddish eyes and her elegant bearing show the wisdom and experience of time. She seems to also know that Sansa is staring at her but she remains inscrutable.

“Let’s move on for now, Sansa. You say you did not see this young man again for some time and never engaged in sexual relations again.”

“No,” Sansa replies simply.

“Did you avoid sex all together, or just with him?”

“I- I thought I would never want to be with anyone again at first,” Sansa confesses slowly, “but I returned to school soon after and, well, there were teas and mixers and dances with the Kingsguard Academy, and sometimes with boys from other schools in Westeros. Many sports teams and academic clubs would visit the Capitol and…and some of the boys were very nice but…I didn’t have sex with them…not really.”

Her doctor looks up from her notes. “I’m sorry Sansa, how do you mean ‘not really’?”

Sansa takes a deep breath. She hates telling such details about what should be private; and she doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, the thing that could mean she has to stay here even longer. “I didn’t…that is, they were never _inside me_ ,” she explains awkwardly, “not _down there_. I touched them and let them touch me, and I learned to…Mar- My friend told me about another way to make boys happy, by…um, well…”

“Do you mean oral gratification, Sansa?” Doctor Melisandre asks simply.

Though she feels herself turn hot and red in the face, Sansa nods briskly. The woman only nods and makes a notation on her paper in Sansa’s file but then asks a question without looking up: “Are you ashamed of that?”

“No. No, lots of girls do it…so they can have boyfriends and still stay maidens,” she informs the woman though she realizes that she only knows that because Margaery, her friend, told her.

“But you weren’t a maiden any longer…”

“That was my business,” Sansa retorts rather firmly and the woman looks up and almost smiles again.

“Yes,” she agrees now, “it was.” Her nod is one of approval this time; but she soon returns to her questioning. “So you wanted to have a boyfriend, or to make boys happy, but were you happy with this arrangement, Sansa?”

Sansa thinks again: she knows that she liked how boys looked at her, and how much she enjoyed their compliments and courtesies and then their flirting and their desire and their want. She also enjoyed knowing that she could satisfy that want. She knew how to use her hands, her mouth and her tongue to give them pleasure. They were high-born boys and treated her well though some would get carried away and push on her shoulders to make her sink to her knees on hard floors or in cramped backseats. They would grip her neck or press down on the back of her head, forcing their _thing_ further into her mouth and throat and releasing all the seed without warning and making her gag and swallow so she would need to purge when she returned to her dorm. She cannot say that she enjoyed that part of it. But she liked how they gazed longingly at her mouth when she licked her lips, and she liked seeing them go weak and hearing them sigh and pant and grunt as she worked them to completion. The boys loved it and she was good at it: they all said so. _You’re so beautiful, Sansa. You’re so good,_ _Sansa. Suck me harder, Sansa. Make me come, Sansa. Gods, Sansa: you’re the best!_ But that was her business; not her doctor’s. She shrugs noncommittally.

“I was younger,” she dismisses the question, “I didn’t think about that: I thought that was just how it is. I never questioned it.”

“You would not be alone in that, Sansa, I’m quite certain most young girls accept how it is; but I am concerned that you may have felt that you never had a voice in the matter, that your feelings mattered less or not at all…and that you still feel that way,” she prompts concernedly. When Sansa only looks at her without answering, she continues her probing questions. “Did you do this because you wanted to, Sansa? There is no shame in a girl being sexually active, and curious; but you seem a young woman who is very conscious of how people perceive you and feel about you? You want very much to please people and to be liked, even loved.”

Sansa shakes her head at her doctor: “Is that not normal?”

Doctor Melisandre leans back in her chair now and gives Sansa a long look. “Probably, Sansa; in one way or another everyone probably does want to be loved. I guess the question is…what are you willing to do, and how far are you willing to go to feel loved, and most importantly Sansa… _have_ you felt loved?”

A long silence passes before Sansa can find her voice.

“Yes…I thought so,” she answers quietly. “I-” She swallows hard and feels her throat begin to tighten. “Please…can we stop now?”

Her doctor only hesitates a moment. “Of course we can, Sansa. I will find someone to take you back to your room.”

…….

The orderly purses her lips in frustration when she comes for Sansa’s dinner tray.

“I thought you were makin’ progress, miss. Doc won’t like this. You won’t be let out tomorrow.”

Sansa is sitting on her bed with her arms wrapped around herself. She is rocking back and forth slowly.

“I know,” she replies absently. She doesn’t care, really. She’s doesn’t want to talk again; she may not want to talk again at all anymore. She doesn’t want to have to tell this strange woman in her red wardrobe about her most personal feelings and experiences and to have her question and judge her and presume to tell her right from wrong. Sansa knows right from wrong: hadn’t her mother taught her, and her father too?

_Father. I’m sorry. Please forgive me…please. Please, I want to go home._

“Please,” she whispers.

“What’s that, miss?”

“I- Please, I just want to go home.” With that she begins to cry. She sputters and blubbers and then doubles over and cries in great gusty sobs that make her gasp for breath. “Puh-puh-please, I _have_ to go _home._ ”

The orderly looks alarmed and ducks out of the room without even closing the door behind her, but Sansa is so helpless with grief and pain that she does not even notice. Her cries are becoming howls, and she doesn’t think she can ever stop nor does she think that she even cares any more. There is a hurrying sound and low voices in the hallway, and then the Elder Brother rushes into her room and kneels before her.

“Miss Stark? What is it? Are you hurt? Let me help you.”

“I want to go _HOME_!” She howls again and thumps her fists hard against her knees again and again before the Elder Brother pulls her to him and holds her close.

“It’s alright. You’re alright. Let it out, now. Cry it out. I’m here; I’ll stay with you,” he murmurs as she cries and cries. “That’s it now. You’ve been strong. You’ve been good, Sansa. You can cry now.”

Sansa huffs and gasps and tries to stop crying. This man is being kind and so she needs to be better, she needs to behave properly like a lady, and not a loud crybaby. She’s behaving worse than Lolys; and the Elder Brother has said that Lolys may not be able to be helped. If she does not behave they will keep her here, and she will never go home.

“Huh-huh-huh, I’m-I’m-I’m so-so-sorry…I’m sor-sorry…sorry.”

“No,” he murmurs, “no, you don’t need to be sorry; you need to get well. Did I not tell you to let the pain out, hm?”

He pulls back now and looks at her with a gentle smile.

Sansa lifts her hand to her face and covers her mouth and blinks at him before nodding shakily.

“Ye-ye-yes…you did.”

“Yes, I did,” he nods encouragingly and pats her with the hand he left on her shoulder, “so you cry all you want, and I’ll stay with you while you do.”

She is so tired and so miserable that she is shivering and tears well up in her eyes again. But she is a good girl, and remembers her courtesies.

“Thank you,” she whispers hoarsely, and she leans into his shoulder again and resumes crying.

“Bring her a blanket,” he tells the orderly quietly.

“But-” she begins to protest.

“No buts; bring it now,” Sansa hears him tell the woman firmly. “And leave the door open: she’s not going anywhere.”

_She’s not going anywhere._

With a sinking feeling of utter failure, Sansa knows that she will not be going home soon; and so she will not stop crying soon either.


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

She begins to envy the Red Woman her seemingly infinite wardrobe. Today she has on a pretty, lace-collared dress with a floaty skirt in a primary red with a tiny pattern of white dots, while Sansa is as ever relegated to her ugly hospital gown. She thinks it must be warm outside for her doctor to wear such a light dress. Though the red her doctor wears would clash with her own hair, Sansa thinks that cannot remember the last time she got to pick out any pretty clothes or a dress to wear. But then she knows that is wrong: she knows exactly when she last dressed up and it was on the night of Petyr and her Aunt Lysa’s party. She had donned a dusty blue, knee-length silk dress with dainty white appliqué flowers. It had little cap sleeves and a low rounded neckline: tightly fitted but still faintly demure; and she had felt pretty and girlish for the first time in so long. The bruising on her neck had been so faint that she could barely see it, and the marks on her thighs were hidden under the full skirt. She had even felt that she was starting fresh on a new life. She looks around at the pale stone and high windows of her therapist’s office on the ward wing of the mental hospital on the Quiet Isle and smirks inwardly.

 _I certainly did get a new life that night_ , she cannot help but think bitterly. _Stupid girl. Well, it wasn’t the first time you were fooled by a young man…_

Doctor Melisandre is making her wait. And so Sansa waits as she reads through her file, undoubtedly going over every word of the Elder Brother’s report on her crying spell in her room, and says nothing. She has not been let out of her room in three days because she would not eat again the following morning after she had cried, nor that night. Finally the orderly brought the nasty guard who threatened to have her strapped to a hospital bed and feed forcibly. Sansa remembers when she woke up in the hospital in the Vale emergency room with her wrists bound to the bed and quails at his words.

“That won’t be necessary,” the Elder Brother announced firmly from behind them now. “Miss Stark only needed some time to recover, but I am certain that she will co-operate now if she is treated kindly and reasonably. Mr. Trant, you can return to the front station; you are done here.”

When they leave, the Elder Brother comes to sit beside her and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry about him. We need him to deal with some of the men here, who can be aggressive; but his manner is inappropriate for dealing with most of the women on the ward.” He sighs. “Miss Stark, I need you to eat something or else they will have to send you to the hospital wing, and I don’t want that to happen. It would be a setback, and I don’t believe you would like that anymore than Doctor Melisandre or I would. I’ve ordered you some vegetable broth and mashed turnips and tea with milk: it would be best you start slowly and gently but you _do_ need to eat.”

“I don’t need to eat,” she counters dully, “but...I will for you.”

“Thank you, Miss Stark. Here we go,” he encourages when her tray arrived from the kitchen: a Styrofoam bowl of pale broth with a plastic spoon, a smaller bowl with yellow turnips and a plastic cup with steaming milky tea. She tries and fails to resist wrinkling her nose in distaste but she sits forward when Elder Brother places the tray in her lap. She starts with the broth, forcing spoonfuls of the watery concoction into her mouth and forcing herself to swallow.

“Looks as appetizing as dish water, frankly,” Elder Brother comments wryly, “though I know there are nutrients in there somewhere. I can’t share your dislike of food, Miss Stark; but I can admire your discipline. Asceticism is very much part of our order. We eat healthily enough: we need to for work; but we don’t indulge. It takes discipline to control your appetite, to control any part of yourself really; and once you master discipline you needs watch that it doesn’t master you,” he turns to look on her and meet her eyes since she has stopped eating to listen to his words. “Some brothers become very proud of it, and themselves, which is at odds with humility. Oh, aye: self-control is very seductive, sometimes addictive. Staying in control of yourself, even one small part of yourself, when all around you the world is coming apart? That’s a strong thing. Oof, the military men get that way, I tell you; drunk on order, obsessed with the smallest detail of routine and uniforms and protocol…I think some wouldn’t pass a fart without a direct order,” he jests and Sansa giggles softly.

“When did you start with this hatred of eating?” he questions gently, indicating the broth with his stubbly chin.

Sansa looks away from his mild gaze and stares down into the half-empty Styrofoam bowl. It takes her a long time to answer. She doesn’t understand why they think she’s doing something wrong: food makes her sick, and isn’t she supposed to get better? She feels the urge to defend herself, as always.

“I try to eat healthy,” she insists mildly, “for my training. So many things make me sick, or make me feel sick, so I avoid them. I want to keep running.”

“You can’t possibly train and run on this stuff,” he chides her. “Gods be good, it’s barely enough to survive. When did food start making you sick then?”

She is quiet again. She likes this man but also wishes he would leave her be.

“I would leave you in peace, Miss Stark, but I don’t believe that you truly have any,” he seems to read her thoughts. “That was a great load of pain you let out the other night.”

“I just wanted to go home. I want to go home.”

“Hm, so what’s at home then?”

“My family,” she tells him as though it should be obvious.

“You weren’t living at home before you came here,” he observes reasonably. “You were in the Vale; and at school in Kings Landing. Why do you want to go home now, Miss Stark?”

“I…” Why did she want to go to Winterfell? She has not felt at home there in so long. “I – I’ve forgotten…things,” she begins confusedly. “I need to feel…something, something I don’t feel anywhere else.”

“And what is that something, Miss Stark,” he prods, not ungently. “Security? Love? Do you eat there?” he jests finally when she does not reply.

Sansa is thinking. She did lose her appetite after her father was killed, but that only seemed natural; just as it seemed unnatural to enjoy anything anymore: food or fun or laughing. Sansa tried to be strong for her family, and brave like her mother. Her mother had been stoic in her grief, and then so busy with the businesses and other responsibilities that she gave what little time she had mostly to Robb, since so much would fall on him. Baby Rickon took to following Sansa around, hugging her legs so that she couldn’t leave him. That was when she first began to feel the urge to run. But she didn’t.

Instead she used to sneak away with Jeyne to the broken tower with books and glossy teen magazines to talk and squeal over clothes and cosmetics and most especially boys. Jeyne would eat candy but Sansa would only suck on them and then spit them out. Jeyne had envied her discipline too. No more desserts: the sweetness seemed sour to her, and bread felt like lead in her tummy while meats tasted too salty and the fat made her nauseous. Only the fresh vegetables and fruits from the glass garden or the orchards tempted her to eat at all.

“Does any food grow on the island, Brother?” she asks him now.

He lifts his brows but otherwise shows no surprise at her question.

“Aye, we grow most of our own food here, and keep bees for honey and we have cows and goats for milk and chickens for eggs. We make our own ale and sweet cider too. Why do you ask?”

“Apples,” she replies with a quirk of a smile, “and berries, and carrots that still taste like dirt after they’ve been washed.” She looks at her meager tray and then at the Elder Brother. “They send me cooked desserts, and tough boiled meat but I cannot seem to stomach them.”

“Raw food is harder to digest,” he hedges,” but if that would tempt you then I’ll speak with your nutritionist tomorrow. Go on and finish this now,” he insists.

It takes her a long time to eat the turnips and drink her now tepid tea with milk but the Elder Brother is patient and tells her more about the food grown and the work done by the brothers on the Quiet Isle.

“How long have you been here, Brother?” Sansa questions finally.

He chuckles softly now. “It’s my story you want, is it? That will have to keep for another day, Miss Stark. Try to think about your own life for now,” he pats her knee comfortingly.

“The last time I did that-” She stops. She does not want to think about her breakdown, or to remind him: she is stronger than that. She will show them. So she sits patiently and politely as Doctor Melisandre makes her wait. She finally sets the file folder down.

“Forgive me, Sansa. It has been some days now since we last spoke and I needed to catch up. I am pleased that you are eating again,” she notes, “but I hope that you might tell me what led to your emotional outburst the evening just after you had asked to end our last session early.” She waits for Sansa to reply but she only shakes her head.

“I don’t remember anymore,” she tells the Red Woman briskly.  _Can they not just leave her be?_

“I asked you if you have ever left loved and you answered that you thought so,” she recounts smoothly. “Do you doubt your feelings now?”

Sansa feels her jaw tighten. “No. No, I don’t doubt how I felt.” _Never…but how could I have been wrong about him? Was I? Or did it all change?_

Doctor Melisandre looks down at her red pen and fiddles it slightly.

“Did you meet him at one of the teas or dances at school?” she ventures.

Now Sansa looks down and examines her clasped hands in her lap. She sees that she is clenching them so hard it should hurt, but she feels nothing. She stretches her fingers flat against her thighs beneath the synthetic hospital gown. She shakes her head now.

“We…It was at Winterfell.” _Jon._ “It began at my brother’s wedding.”

Her doctor smiles indulgently. “Weddings can be very romantic. Was he another friend of your older brother?”

 _He was our cousin. We’d known him all our lives; or I thought I knew him._  “Yes.”

It seemed the simplest answer, and not entirely untrue.

“Did you fall in love with him then?”

 _Oh gods._ Sansa feels her heart compress so that her shoulders hunch inward and she can barely breathe. Her throat goes completely dry.  But she cannot possibly lie about this, it would be like denying her very existence.

“I- I wanted to spend my whole life with him.”

.......

“Welcome home, Miss Sansa.”

“Thank you, Jory. I’m happy to be home,” she replies politely and automatically though, truth be told, she has been in Kings Landing so long now that she almost thinks of it as her home. Certainly she knows more people there than she does here anymore. She supposes that she may be wrong, but the people at Winterfell have been here for as long as she can remember, and so mayhaps she takes their presence for granted but…there seems to be almost nothing here for her now.

“Sansa!”

“Arya…look at you.”

Sansa cannot get over the change in her younger sister. Like her, Arya has spent time away from home at school, at the Banners School in the Riverlands. Though she is still on occasion sullen and tough, she has a feistiness and quick snort of laughter that Sansa finds charming. She has grown into her looks too: her longish face has softened with padded high cheekbones like Sansa’s and their mother’s, and with full lips, the bottom of which is pierced with a gold ring. She has a stud in one side of her nose as well. Her dark hair is a sloppy ponytail, streaked with purple and blue.

“You don’t have to say anything, Sansa; Mother has already made her opinion very clear,” Arya dismisses her while rolling her eyes.

“It suits you, Arya,” Sansa tells her sincerely. She sometimes envies Arya’s freedom to go against all ladylike expectations; but that is not really her style. “You look really cool.”

“Well…thanks, Sansa. Jon is here too, and is in the wedding party as well…though he doesn’t have to wear a bloody bridesmaid’s dress. Come say hi.”

When Sansa turns around, her cousin steps out into the hall from the family room and stands there. He looks the same as always, only slightly older and with longer hair. He has the Stark looks, with dark hair and a long face, and it suits his quiet nature, and he seems as reserved and remote as he ever was, at least with her. He left Winterfell at the same time she did, after her father died, to go to a school further North. He graduated the Night’s Watch Academy the same year Robb finished school but had not been at his graduation.

“Hello Jon, I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“No…guess not,” he mumbles.

Sansa walks up to kiss him on the cheek: a Kings Landing custom she does without thinking, but Jon looks startled and blinks and blushes.

“H’lo Sansa.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

She and Jon are partnered in the wedding party, which surprises Sansa since she has expected that Jon would be Robb’s best man; but Jon is a Snow, and the mother-of-the-bride has sniffed down her nose at her maiden-of-honor younger daughter being partnered with an acknowledged bastard-born cousin of the groom. Robb has Smalljon Umber stand for him instead, and so Sansa avoids him by turning all her attention to Jon. She is just shy of eight-and-ten now, and Robb is only twenty: his marriage is unexpected and seemingly impulsive but he is clearly smitten with his pretty fiancée Jeyne Westerling. They met through one of his interns at Stark Industries: her elder brother Raynald, and fell completely in love. Sansa believes that with so many responsibilities that Robb is more mature than most young men, and his father’s example and his own happy upbringing make being married  a joyful decision for him and not the burdensome settling-down against which so many of his friends have tried to caution him. So now as well as college and sitting as head of their late father’s businesses, he is about to become a husband. There are also unkind rumours that he is marrying because he is about to become a father, but he laughingly dismisses them by saying he should be so lucky.

The Westerlings are an old family but neither a rich nor a powerful one, and so the match is advantageous to Jeyne which is another source of gossip for guests. It is whispered that Jeyne’s father Gawen married for money and that his wife Sybell insists on respect and propriety even at the expense of politeness as a way of making up for her background. And so she snubs Jon, and gawks aghast at Arya’s facial piercings and dyed hair, and sighs melodramatically at what she considers to be their small sept. Sansa sees the tension in her mother’s smiles and resolves to do all she can to charm Jeyne’s parents and make the event easier for her family, just as she is attentive to Jon to make up to him for being displaced as Robb’s best man. By the time the wedding ceremony is over, she is desperate to relax and enjoy herself.

_Not that desperate,_ she thinks when Smalljon winks at her as he hands her a glass of champagne at the reception. She thanks him and turns away to speak to the younger Westerling brother. Smalljon does not approach her again. Much later, after toasts and dinner and speeches and cake and more champagne there is dancing. She dances with Jon after the bride and groom have the first dance, and he is stiff and uncomfortable with the formal steps at first, then relaxes and even smiles when Sansa whispers that he is doing well. She dances dutifully with Jeyne’s father and brothers, and then with many admiring young men. Several make suggestive overtures to Sansa, and try to grope her when dancing, and so she feels beautiful and sexy and is tempted to indulge in an illicit exchange but fears that her family or Jeyne’s should find out. She gracefully brushes off each young man with teasing jests. Finally the young newlywed couple retire to their chambers to cheers and catcalls and fistfuls of thrown confetti. Looking around, Sansa sees Jon alone near the great doors to Winterfell’s yard. He had been surprised and politely receptive to her attention all day, and she felt that they had bridged some of the distance that had always existed between them. But seeing him going off on his own makes her concerned that he is brooding.

“Jon,” she calls, “are you coming back inside? The party is not over.”

“Aye,” he acknowledges her, “just wanting some air.”

The hall is noisy and crowded and so Sansa follows him. The cool breeze ruffles her grey chiffon bridesmaid’s dress: Jeyne insisted on Stark grey in Winterfell and so the men had grey suits with pale sand-coloured ties and the girls had flowing mid-calf  grey gowns and nude suede hells with straps. Sansa had stood taller than Jon as he escorted her and she hoped he did not feel diminished next to her. Outside in the yard, she finds him lighting a cigarette.

“That’s hardly getting fresh air,” she laughs as she totters over unsteadily over the cobblestones after too much champagne. She will need to purge later; she loves champagne but she is not supposed to drink alcohol when training for the track team at school. Purging seems to Sansa a reasonable compromise. Jon watches her walk to him without replying; he only drags on the cigarette and exhales resignedly.

“They won’t miss me,” he observes sullenly when she stops before him.

“Oh Jon, don’t say that,” she tells him. “Jeyne’s mother is just overly snobby because she’s not high-born.”

“And I’m not true-born,” he replies, and he is right of course. Though Jon is the son of their father’s sister Lyanna, she and his father Rhaegar Targaryen were not married when he was born. Her Aunt Lyanna died birthing him and Rhaegar was killed in a motorcycle crash on his way to the hospital to claim him. His Targaryen family would never acknowledge him and so he grew up at Winterfell as their illegitimate cousin until her mother send him to headmaster Mormont at the Night’s Watch Academy. Sansa had never been close with Jon; not like Arya was, but she sympathizes now with having been sent away and feeling like an outsider with your own family sometimes.

“Don’t say that: Robb thinks of you as a brother, despite mollifying Mrs. Westerling and…you are a Stark to me, Jon.”

He turns and looks at her intently now. “Thank you, Sansa.” He stares a little longer than is comfortable and so she breaches the distance between them to hug and reassure him. When she does, she feels his arms tighten around her and hold her close to him. “Gods, you look pretty,” he murmurs next to her ear and when she pulls back to look at him she feels the surprising but familiar heat in her body when she knows a man is attracted to her. His dark grey eyes roam her face from her eyes to her lips and back again.

“Sansa…”

She leans in to kiss him impulsively. When their lips meet they are soft and warm and lingering and he only pulls back an instant before kissing her again and slipping his hand into her hair caressingly. She opens her mouth to his tongue and sucks on it passionately, and his arms tighten around her so that she can feel his hardness against her thigh through the chiffon skirt.

“Jon,” she breathes.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “we should stop, I-”

“No,” she insists and looks around quickly. “Come,” she says as she pulls him by the hand to where guests’ cars are parked. She weaves her way between them until they cannot be seen and leans him to rest against the hood of a vintage sports car. There she presses her body against him and kisses him again. He responds briefly but them grabs her arms.

“What are we doing?” he pants.

“You’ll see,” she giggles breathily and runs her hands down to his hardness to rub with her palm. Before he can react she lowers herself to her knees before him and unzips his trousers. He stares down at her as he understands but does nothing to stop her, so she reaches in and slowly pulls out the length of him to caress and kiss and tongue gently.

“San,” he gasps the name he called her when they were young and Sansa runs her tongue beneath him as she slips him into her mouth.

Moments pass as she bobs her head slowly, sucking and humming and flicking her tongue as he breathes heavily and tentatively touches her face and then sinks his hands into her hair. When he gently caresses her head instead of grabbing it forcefully, she hums louder and beings to move faster.

“Ugh, that’s good, Sansa: seven hells that’s good,” he mutters tightly, “but stop now: I’m coming.”

Sansa only bobs her head faster and sucks deeper until he grunts and cries out softly and then his seed fills her mouth and she swallows.

“Here,” she hears him say and looks up to see him holding his handkerchief out to her. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she tells him after she has wiped her mouth and rolled up the handkerchief to return to him. “Are…are you alright, Jon?” In the dim light, he is looking at her as though he has never seen her before.

“You’re beautiful, Sansa,” he tells her now, still staring intently.

Sansa feels herself blush under his fierce gaze. “Thank you, Jon…we should go back, I guess….before we’re missed.”

“You go ahead,” he tells her. “I’m going to wait a moment.”

She walks back into the keep feeling flushed and content but there is a flicker of uncertainty in the back of her mind. _He said it was good, and that I’m beautiful: why is he not happy? Is it because of the wedding?_

“Sansa! Dear! There you are,” Sybell Westerling cries with forced enthusiasm and Sansa is forced to smile back at her. “Come show my relatives just how lovely the bridesmaid gown _can_ look when done right,” she orders loudly as she casts a disparaging glance at Arya. Arya rolls her eyes at Sansa, in sympathy this time she thinks, and runs to join Jon as he slowly follows in behind her.

…….

After she has retired to her chamber and taken off the dress, Sansa purges and washes and puts on her pretty nightgown and matching robe and sits in her window seat. It is nearly morning now and she should be exhausted but she is too restless to sleep. Jon’s eyes followed her all night in the Great Hall and he brushed by her several times, slowly and close enough to make her smile secretly. But he has said nothing, and she wishes she knew what he is thinking: about her, about them, about everything. When dawn begins to break, she steals away to the godswood and lies beneath some sentinel pines in the soft grass and closes her eyes. Suddenly she opens them again.

“Jon.”

She sits up now and he walks over still in his suit with his jacket thrown over his shoulder.

“San…you must be cold,” he walks over to drape his jacket around her gently. “So…what was that all about?”

Sansa shakes her head as though to clear it. “It was what it was, Jon. I liked kissing you and being in your arms,” she tells him honestly. “Did I upset you somehow-“

“No! Gods no,” he tells her as he sits in the grass beside her. “You were beautiful. It was wonderful, but…we’ve never been close…I was surprised…to say the least. Beautiful, high-born girls don’t jump at the chance to be with bastards.”

Sansa lies back in the grass and smiles at him. “Hm? And which girls do jump at the chance to be with you, Jon? I’ll bet there are many who have, and many who will.”

“You’re teasing me,” he accuses ruefully.

“Only a little,” she smiles wider and he gazes at her with those intense eyes. “I wish you would kiss me again,” she whispers.

Jon lies beside her and brings his lips to hers but lingers there and smiles. “I can tease too, San,” he jests slyly, then looks down the length of her body beneath her nightgown with yearning. “Can I touch you?”

“Um,” she hums as he leans in to brush her lips with his. He softly kisses her face, her eyes and finally her lips as she feels his fingertips inch up the inside of her leg underneath her nightgown. By the time he brushes a tentative finger up between her legs she is ready for him.

“Soft and wet,” he breathes against her mouth. “For me, San?”

“Yes, oh yes,” she whispers back to him. “Will you touch me more, Jon, please?” She thinks this is how it is supposed to be: gentle and building and sweet and she wants him more than she thought it was possible to want a man. He slips his fingers inside her now: slowly and carefully, and he crooks them slightly to press against a hard and sensitive spot and rub in circles as his thumb brushes over the tiny nub that swells and tingles when she is excited.

“Oh, Jon,” she gasps suddenly. Her legs clamp tightly to keep his hand there and she licks her lips and rubs her thighs together and her breathing is heavy and she feels she might burst.

“Come for me, San; come for me like you made me come for you,” he mutters closely and sinks his lips into her neck and sucks hard.

“Ah!” She cries out softly and arches her body as a warm rushing pleasure surges through her from her hairline to her toes. She is exhilarated and exhausted at the same time when she subsides back into the soft grass and feels like she could sleep dreamlessly for hours. “Mmmm,” she sighs happily.

“Was that good?’

Sansa opens her eyes and smiles brightly at him. “That was wonderful…it was very lovely, Jon: I loved it.”

His hand caresses her thigh then he pulls down her nightgown to cover her again. “Are you a maiden, San?”

She hesitates: part of her feels that Smalljon doesn’t count, or at least he shouldn’t when he treated her so carelessly. She wants better, but she will not lie to him. She bites her lip and shakes her head no and he twists his lip slightly.

“It was only once, and it wasn’t good,” she confides, “and so I never did it again. I- I never thought I’d want to again then…”

“But…now you do?” he asks her with that intense look.

She looks back into his eyes, “If I could be with you I would,” she replies feelingly.

Jon reaches to hold her face in his hands and rubs his thumb softly over her lower lip. After a moment she kisses his thumb impulsively and he laughs.

“Will you wait for me while I try to work something out? I’d like to find a place for us to be together.”

“We’re together now,” she teases him again.

He looks up and around at the peaceful, early-morning godswood.

 “Anyone could walk in and find us,” he tells her before locking eyes with her again. “I want to be alone with you, San, and have all the time in the world.”


	10. Chapter 10

 

Sansa coasts her bicycle down a gentle hill of one of the furthest outlying streets in the Wintertown. The cottages here are old stone and timber with diamond-patterned windowpanes and the lanes that run between are too narrow for cars. It is pretty and quiet, seemingly deserted. Once the people who lived here would have been known as commons and worked out in surrounding fields or serving in the castle but now they are more likely to be working in boutiques or galleries or restaurants in Wintertown’s thriving center as they are to be employed by Winterfell.

_The last one at the end behind the large oak, with a whitewashed door and purple flowers on the window ledge_ , Jon had told her.

Sansa gets off her bike and walks along the low brick wall past wooden gates whose paths lead to small homes with ivy and rambling roses growing in profusion and is utterly charmed.

_It’s so pretty here, just like something from a story._

She enters the gate of the last house and leans her bicycle up behind the tree before walking up to the cottage door. There she stands and wrings her hands together nervously.

_Should I knock, or just go in? Will he be here: he said he would be here._

But just as she is about to knock the door opens and he is standing there before her.

“Jon,” she breathes happily. He is wearing a grey sweater that matches his eyes, and his dark hair falls across his forehead in a way that makes him look sheepish and sexy at the same time. She can feel her face flush with heat as she smiles brightly.

“San,” he murmurs and looks her over and smiles gently, “you look pretty.”

Sansa ducks her own head shyly. She has taken care to brush her hair until it fell in curls and to wear a blue flowered dress to bring out her eyes: she had wanted so much to look pretty for him and she is pleased that she succeeded. She wants so much for him to like her. It will be the first time they are alone together since the godswood after Robb’s wedding though they have been living in Winterfell and seeing each other at meals and in the family rooms. Jon has stepped in for Robb while he and Jeyne are on their wedding trip in the Riverlands, much to Sansa’s mother’s consternation. Sansa has never understood her mother’s opposition to Jon being involved in Stark Industries though Jon has never shown a particular interest in business; but Robb trusts him implicitly and had asked him this favour. It had made for awkward evenings as Jon showed his closeness to Arya and interest in Bran and Rickon while Catelyn Stark had observed him resentfully. Sansa had kept a careful distance; it would have seemed strange if they had suddenly appeared close, but she watched him surreptitiously from behind her book. She was working for the Stark charity foundation while on break from school, and saw nothing of him during the days of fielding calls and making appearances and speeches on behalf of her family. She is told that she does it very well, and people are always kind to her; but she is so nervous before she speaks before a room full of people, or visits hospitals or orphanages that she needs to purge beforehand and her dresses are starting to fit loosely on her.

“Thank you, Jon,” she answers as he lets her in. The cottage is as quaint inside, with rustic antiques and worn carpets and lace curtains.

“It was Jory’s mother’s place,” Jon tells her when he sees her looking around. “He lets me stay here sometimes; he prefers staying at Winterfell.”

“Don’t you like to stay at Winterfell, Jon?” Sansa thinks that she already knows the answer.

His brow furrows somewhat. “Not…not so much since your father has been gone; he made me feel a like one of the family but after…after I went away to school up near the Wall…I mean, I love everyone but I feel like I grew apart from them,” he trails off quietly.

Sansa nods understandingly. “I know how you feel, Jon, because…I feel the same now.”

“You?” He seems surprised. “But, you’re a true Stark. You’re beautiful and you do well in school and make the family proud; and your mother gets so excited when you come home.”

“But I’m so far away, and I feel that I have been gone so long that I am hardly Northern anymore. I love everyone too but…sometimes I feel like they don’t really know me, not really, and that Kings Landing is my home.” When she finishes she realizes how sad it makes her feel to think that Winterfell is not a true home to her.

“Don’t feel sad, San. I’m sorry I mentioned it: I should know that if I miss your father than it must be much worse for you.”

She has such a strong pang of pain that she feels an urge to run but before she realizes it, Jon has put his arms around her and draws her close to comfort her. He strokes her hair gently and kisses her cheek. Sansa feels safe and cared for and reaches her arms around his neck to hold him as well.

“I feel so close to you, Jon, knowing we feel the same way,” she whispers. “I’m glad you told me.”

“Funny,” he murmurs now, “that you and I should have so much in common; I always thought we were so different. You seemed such a good girl, a real straight arrow they’d call you up in the far North,” he teases gently. “I always thought that you looked down on me…you know, for being different, but then you were kissing me, and…and on your knees for me. You’re so beautiful, San, and so sweet…all I’ve thought about is being with you again.”

His voice is nearly hoarse from emotion, and there is such yearning in his face that he almost looks a boy. Sansa feels the familiar tug inside herself and a wonderful warmth floods through her as she looks into his eyes, so soft and intense at the same time that she almost forgets her words. She is waiting for him to kiss her when he leans closer and takes her hand in his.

“Shall we go to the bedroom now?” he asks her.

Sansa nods quickly: her mouth is suddenly too dry to speak and so she licks her lips. Jon sees this and stops to trace his fingertips over her mouth.

“It’s going to be so beautiful with you, San,” he whispers now, and she feels almost faint with emotions that leave her trembling.

In the small bedroom there is a large low bed beneath a wide window. Jon has drawn the drapes already and set candles to burn on the mantle of the stone hearth. He closes the door behind them and turns to her and kisses her gently, just once before steeping away and reaching to pull his t-shirt over his head and making his curly dark hair fall into his eyes.

“Bloody mess,” he curses impatiently.

“I like it,” she tells him impulsively, and he looks at her and blinks in surprise.

When he keeps looking at her, Sansa decides to undress and reaches behind her neck to unzip her dress but Jon stops her.

“No,” he stills her hands, “let me do it…please? I want to undress you myself.”

Sansa nods shyly and turns so he can reach the back of her dress, which he unzips slowly and carefully before she feels his warm fingertips on her skin spreading the back open. He walks around and peels it back from her shoulders and draws it down to her waist as though he is opening a gift, and his eyes take all of her in hungrily. She crosses her arms to push the straps of her bra off when he draws her to him, sensing her shyness and allowing her to conceal herself from his open stare. He lowers his eyes and moves to stand behind her.

“Are you scared, San?”

She shakes her head no; she does not think she can speak right now because she is nervous but she is also wondrously happy.

_This is how it is in the books. This is how it is supposed to be. Please, let me do this right for him._

With an indrawn breath, she lets her bra slips to the floor and then pushes her panties down to do the same and then slowly turns to him. She sees that his expression is almost pained and she almost panics.

“Jon? Is there something wrong?” If he changes his mind, or laughs at her then she will die right there. But he shakes his head slowly as his eyes travel longingly down her body and his hands come up to caress her bare shoulders.

“You’re so beautiful, San. I wish I knew better words to tell you but…I never read much like you do.”

When she open her mouth to reply he kisses her gently and then again more firmly and deeply. Sansa sighs and reaches her arms around his neck but then he breaks away and surprises her by bending and lifting her off her feet and into his arms to set her on the bed. When he steps back to undress himself, she self-consciously slips beneath the covers. Sansa is suddenly aware that she has never been truly naked with a man before, with a naked man. She has only fumbled with open zippers to touch boys, or had her bra and top pushed up or down so boys could fondle her breasts. They would shove their hands down her pants or up under her skirts but none have ever undressed her so carefully and reverently as Jon has. She hopes the rest is better too.

Jon slides his jeans down and stands for a moment, fully naked and with his…his member standing straight up. Sansa swallows.

_Say something: he told you that you’re beautiful._

“You’re so very handsome, Jon; and strong.”

Jon blushes. He is handsome, and his body is well-formed: his muscles are well-defined and he had lifted her easily.

“I- I’ll be gentle with you, San; I promise,” he tells her now, and she smiles for him.

He climbs into bed with her and leans over her. He begins to kiss her gently and pushes her hair back with his free hand. In time, his hands caress her slowly and she feels her body relax and her heartbeat and breathing come faster as his warm touch travels all over her skin: rough palms and gentle fingertips over her back and shoulders, on her breasts and legs and then between. Her own hands trace his skin: on his face, his neck and shoulders, his belly and behind and then she touches him too and he sucks in his breath sharply.

“Easy, San…or I won’t last, and I want it to be good for you too.”

Jon touches her gently and expertly, just as he had done in the godswood but more slowly and carefully. She loves how it feels this way, with him: she doesn’t wince from pain or shame or fear being caught. She sighs instead, and lets the wonderful warmth and wetness course through her as her heart fills and her mind spins until she is near overwhelmed and fears she will pass out and miss everything.

“Jon,” she gasps breathily.

“Yes, you’re ready,” he murmurs and rolls onto her carefully, propping his weight up on his elbow over her. She feels his knee push slightly at hers and she opens her legs wider for him because she wants this, she wants him, so much that she thinks she might burst. When she feels the head of his member at her opening, she wills herself not to resist but as he begins to slide into her she tightens anyway.

“Breathe, San,” he prompts her.

“Sorry-”

“s’alright,” he soothes her quietly.

He pushes in more, then stops and pulls back. She is about to protest when he pushes in again, gently but further this time, and pulls back again. He does this over and over, pushing into her further each times but then pulling back to start again, until Sansa no longer resists. Instead she is so hungry, so desperate for him to come back inside her that she instinctively spreads her legs wider and reaches to push on his behind as she tilts her hips upward so that he will fill her completely. When he does he grunts and gasps. Sansa arches her neck and back to press her body into his and feel his skin against hers. She wants to be as close to him as she possibly can.

“More, Jon, more… _please_ ,” she whispers desperately.

Jon rears above her now, looking down intently at her face. His eyes are searching hers, vaguely uncertain and hypnotically intense.

“It’s good, Jon,” she assures him, “oh, it’s good.”

He keeps filling her again and again, always pulling back and pushing in slowly and gently, until she cannot bear it any longer. Her insides feel full and warm and wet, but the rest of her body is growing tight and tense like she is holding her breath but she isn’t: she’s panting and beginning to give little squeaks and squeals in a high-pitched voice she does not recognize as her own until finally she arches suddenly and completely and cries out a high gasping cry of release and grabs his biceps in an iron grip so that her nails scratch his skin.

“Oh…oh, Jon…um, _ye_ s!”

“San…” he mutters and begins to move faster over her now, driving deeper until he clutches her close to him and simply pumps his hips rhythmically. “So beautiful…” He closes his eyes now. “Here I come, San: _gods_!”

His body seems to seize up and he holds himself deep inside her and she feels the pulsing throb of him that seems in time with her own heartbeat. Finally he collapses onto her, and she can feel the real thudding of his own heart so she warps her arms around him and holds him tightly.

“Sorry,” he mutters and tries to pull away.

“No.” She pulls him back to her, squeezing him tighter and shutting her eyes in a fervent wish to be close. Then she feels him brush her hair back.

“San…are you alright? I know you didn’t like it before-”

“I do like it,” she whispers to him. “It’s wonderful, Jon. It’s wonderful with you….like in a song.”

She winces as she hears him chuckle softly and feels his fingers under her chin, turning her face to his.

“Look at me, San,” he coaxes her.

When she opens her eyes for him, she is met with his grey eyes looking gently and lovingly at her, and her trepidation passes.

“I want it to be wonderful for you…for us,” he assures her.

“Thank you, Jon…it was.”

He traces his fingertip over her lips again before looking at her intently now.

“I love you, San.”

Sansa’s heart fills so suddenly that she needs to catch her breath, and she wishes to die happy right there in his arms.

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

“You’re going to be as skinny as Arya soon,” Jon teases her now as he traces a fingertip down her ribcage.

Sansa turns her eyes up to his searchingly. “I- I’m sorry,” she stammers, and begins to cross her arms over her breasts to cover herself when he stops her.

“Hey, don’t do that. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings; I’m just worried. You don’t eat much at meals. I hope you’re not trying to diet, San; you’re perfect the way you are,” he murmurs reassuringly as his hand caresses her body.

Now she blushes and ducks her head. “Thank you, Jon.” But she’s not perfect, she only knows that she wants to be, for him, because he says he loves her and she wants him to always.

They have been spending such time as they can together in Jory’s mother’s cottage, heading straight to the bedroom and making love endlessly and sharing snippets of their lives with each other: Sansa’s from Kings Landing and Jon’s from the far North. She tells him about school and track and friends, but never about boys. Jon talks less of school, and more of ice hockey and survival training and his friends, who have names like Pyp and Grenn and one high-born boy named Samwell Tarly who is from the Reach, like her friends Margaery and Loras.

“Good thing he’s the youngest son, then,” Jon comments about Loras when she talks about him.

“Why do you say that?”

“He’s gay, so he’ll never have heirs. Sam says everyone in the Reach who’s ever seen him knows right away.”

“R-really?” Sansa is surprised because Margaery has never told her and she thought they were close. Still, it does come as something of a relief because Sansa has always adored Loras while he has never showed any interest in her. She had thought she was just a silly girl to him, and not good enough but now she knows the real reason. She cannot remember ever seeing him with a girlfriend, only his friend Renly Baratheon. Renly is kind to her but Sansa has always been uncomfortable around him because he is Joffrey’s uncle and is afraid he knows and thinks badly of her.

“Aye, not that I’ve anything against it: we can’t all be heirs,” Jon confirms dismissively now. “So you’re not dieting?”

“Far from it,” Sansa lies with nervous laughter. “All those receptions and teas…sometimes I think all I do is stuff cakes in my mouth all day in between smiling at donors for the Stark charities. I never have any appetite left at dinner.”

“Uh,” Jon grunts as he rolls back onto the rumpled sheets and puts his hands behind his head, “maybe I’m workin’ you too hard then,” he teases her again.

She laughs at that for real. “With all this practice, I’ll be able to switch from sprinting to long-distance running,” she quips. “You have an athlete’s endurance.”

He sits up. “I’ll sprint you a quickie one day…in the cookhouse pantry maybe,” he jests back at her before that deep intense gaze still her laughter and makes her flood with yearning for him. “But right now, here with you, I’d rather a triathlon,” he ventures.

Sansa blushes, embarrassed that she does not catch his meaning. “I don’t understand, Jon.”

“Three times,” he tells her. “First I was on top, then you were on top-” He had taught her to love him on top, like being astride a horse, and she had loved it, had loved pleasing him and being able to watch him come undone beneath her, arching his back and crying out like she does. She smiles now.

“Are we going to flip for who’s on top this time?” she asks guilelessly.

Jon runs a gentle hand up her leg and rests it at her hip.

“Will you turn over for me, San?”

Sansa blinks. “Wuh-what?”

“You know…from behind, like…like wolves do. Have you never heard of it before?”

Sansa has read about this way of doing it in the kind of books that she and Jeyne shared, and then were passed around the dorm with passages underlined. But women who did _that_ were always wenches and harlots who went with rough soldiers or commons, never ladies with their lovers. Jon might be a bastard by birth but his blood is the blood of high-born parents. Why does he want her to do _that_? But she cannot bring herself to say no to him.

“Jon, I…I like to look at you,” she tells him instead.

“You’re sweet,” he replies, “and I like looking at you too, but I want to see all of you. You’re so beautiful, San, all of you; and it would make me feel like…well, like you truly trusted me.”

His look is doleful, as though she has let him down or would, even as he grips her hip tighter. Sansa does not want to ever let him down, or to feel anything but love and trust from her. So she smiles gently for him and places her slender hand over his on her hip.

“Of course, Jon: you should know that I would do anything for you. I love you,” she assures him with her whole heart.

“Good,” he smiles again and begins to move behind her. “It’s best on your hands and knees,” he advises now, “like a-”

_Like a dog…or a whore_ , Sansa cannot help thinking.

“ –table,” Jon finishes instead, and she is struck that he must have done this before, many times. He is a good lover, or at least he is good at pleasing her, and so must have some experience with other girls. He always treats her gently and looks into her eyes when they are together. This time he will be looking at her behind, she realizes suddenly, and so she squirms as he grasps her other hip.

“It’ll be good, San, I promise: hasn’t it all been good with us?”

She cannot deny that it is wonderful between them. Jon seems as willing to please her as she is to please him. Most boys, like Theon and Smalljon, seemed to assume that what they would like should please her too, but Sansa had always found them too rough, and too quick; she had really only liked the attention and their desire for her. She had never truly found her pleasure until Jon. He said he loved making her come; he would gaze at her flushed happy face with those dark, intense eyes and break into a slow smile.

He does not hurt her now, though his hands on her hips are less gentle than his usual touch, and his gasps and groans are sharper and more frequent. She wishes that she could see his face.

“Ugh…gods, San: it’s incredible to see myself thrust into you; it’s looks as amazing as it feels. Is it good, San? You feel so good this way,” he breathes tightly.

In truth Sansa feel somewhat detached, and disappointed to feel less special than she usually feels; but his own excitement is endearing to her and so she says what she feels that she must to please him.

“Yes,” she whispers, “yes, Jon, it’s good.”

She sighs and arches her bottom up to him and glances to smile at him over her shoulder. When she does, he loses all control. He bends down over her to wrap his arms around her and breathe into her ear through her thick fall of auburn hair.

“I knew it, San. I knew you’d be beautiful like this.” He is thrusting in sharp jabs now, and cups her breasts in his hands. “We’re wolves: it’s in our blood to love like this. Oh, San, I’m coming: I want to come so d-d-deep inside you.”

Sansa begins to feel her body respond to his excitement but he is already reaching his peak: he is clutching at her like a man drowning as he makes sounds behind her that sound like sobs. “Gods, San…gods, I love you.”

…….

The Red Doctor tilts her head and examines Sansa with interest. Sansa has withheld that Jon is her cousin, but the depth of her love and passion for him are difficult to hide. She feels her careful mask slipping, even as she tries to contain herself.

“You sound as though you truly enjoyed your own sexuality with this man, Sansa; or were you just trying to please him like the others…so that he would love you?”

“Both,” she replies after a moment’s reflection. “Can I not enjoy pleasing a man that I love? Must it be only one or the other?”

Her doctor nods her head conciliatorily. “You are right, Sansa: they are not mutually exclusive. So you loved him and felt loved in return. How did that feel for you? Was it exciting or safe or-”

“Both,” Sansa replies again, “it was exciting and safe and romantic and comfortable and thrilling… It was everything.”

“Romantic and thrilling,” her doctor observes carefully. “Was that in part because you were hiding your love from others?”

“Mayhaps,” Sansa ventures softly. “Yes, mayhaps.”

“And why did you need to hide? Did you fear that your mother would have disapproved of your being sexually active…or was it that she would disapprove of the young man?”

Sansa looks her doctor directly in the eyes now and gives the same reply with a flat bitterness this time: “Both…oh, both.”

…….

They had gone out to the wolfswood on Jon’s motorbike one warm afternoon. Sansa’s mother had substituted for her at a function when she had claimed illness that morning though she fully intended to sneak away with Jon. He has asked her that morning at the sideboard in the family dining room as they helped themselves to breakfast though Arya and Rickon were already at the table.

“What are _you_ two talking about?’ Rickon had called from his seat.

“Sansa doesn’t feel well,” Jon replied quickly. “I’ve told her to skip breakfast and go back to bed.”

Rickon shrugged. “Sansa never eats anyway.”

She had met him once everyone had gone, and they rode out to a clearing where Jon spread out a blanket and they made love naked beneath the trees, with the sunlight dappling their skin through the leaves and the only sound the wind in the treetops. They took a long way back over old rutted wagon trails so as not to be seen, and through the woods Sansa spotted a ruined cottage.

“Oh, look, it’s so pretty…well, I guess it was once.”

“Aye, it’s been abandoned some time. We used to throw rocks to break the glass in the windows,” Jon tells her.

“You know this place?”

He nods absently. “Used to come with Robb and Theon when we were boys. Played in these woods a lot.”

Sansa smiles to remember him as a boy now, though they were never close then. He went further North around the time Theon started to teach her how to ride. The memory of Theon upsets her now and her brow furrows and she bites her lip.

“What’s wrong, San?” Jon asks her now.

“I was just thinking…wondering, that is… Who do you suppose lived here?”

“Crofters, I imagine lived here…some time ago: there’s no furnishings left, and no electricity, and only a pump for water. It’s rusted now. Do you want to go inside?”

“Oh, no,” she stops him now when he tugs on her hand. “That would ruin it. I want to think of it as it was once…long ago. Imagine living out here, far from everyone,” she imagines wistfully.

Jon puts his arms around her and holds her close now.

“Just the two of us, you mean? Aye, that’d be nice: just run off and leave everyone else. I’d like that.”

"So would I," Sansa tells him and then turns to him suddenly. “Jon, why don’t we?”

“What: live here? Together?”

“Why not?” she demands excitedly.

Now his brow furrows in consternation. “You know why: we’re first cousins so they’d never let us marry. And then there’s Robb…how do you think he’ll react if he knows? And your mother-”

“I don’t care about them,” Sansa insists passionately. “It’s you I love, Jon. Oh, I just wish we could run away from them all and, and Winterfell too, so we can be together without hiding anymore. We could live here, in our house.”

He scoffs mildly though he looks at her tenderly. “San…how would we live here? How would we manage?”

An idea comes to her so clearly that it seems the perfect solution.

“I will have the money my father left for me when I am twenty-one. Jon, we can go anywhere…further North where you said you feel more at home; and I’ll be there with you. We can have another home: one  just like this-”

He is staring at her intently again, the way she loves for him to look at her, and he suddenly pulls her to him and kisses her and squeezes her so tightly she can scarce breathe. She has to break away from his kiss.

“Jon,” she laughs softly.

“Do you mean it, San? You want to leave here and live with me?”

“Forever, Jon; I want us to spend our lives together.” She feels giddy at her daring, and elated from happiness.

Jon is still staring. “Even with your money, you may need to work…and I will too; I'm not living off you, San. A man's got his pride. And...we’ll need to tell them, San.”

She thinks a moment. “We should tell Robb first, Jon; and so maybe….maybe…” She cannot bring herself to say it.

Jon understands. “You think he’ll tell your mother, then.”

Sansa winces slightly. “It…Jon, it may be better that way. There won’t be any good way to tell her but…this way may be better.”

He squeezes her hand now.  “Okay, San: we’ll do it your way…once Robb returns, we’ll tell him about us.”

 

 

 


End file.
